


Behind the Scenes

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM Scene, BDSM themes, Canine Petplay, Cockwarming, Consensual Kink, Cunnilingus, Deep Intake Penetration, Docking, Dom/sub Play, Edging, Elements of Total Power Exchange, Exhibitionism, Fantasizing, Fingering, Fisting, Headlight Fondling, Leashes and Collars, M/M, Master/Pet, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Power Exchange, Punishment, Secondary Port, Self-Servicing, Semi-Public BDSM Scene, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M, Valve oral, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Ratchet and Prowl have a rather… unique relationship. One that a select number of mechs are allowed to enjoy on the periphery – so long as they look and don’t touch.





	1. Break-Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t the first time Ironhide had walked in on one of their scenes, and he knew it wasn’t going to be the last either.

Ironhide had seen the sign on Prowl’s door and knew exactly what it meant. The simple sentence gave him pause, a moment of debate, before he tucked the datapad under his arm and tried to key his command override into the panel. 

It beeped acceptance at him, and Ironhide’s spark fluttered in surprise. And curiosity. He was welcome, if he so desired. 

Ironhide braced himself and pressed the final key for the door to open. He stepped inside quickly, so the door would shut just as fast, but even the sign did not prepare him for what he found within. 

Ratchet sat in the only chair Prowl had available for visitors. He looked relaxed, unbothered, as he held a datapad in one hand and rested his other along the arm of the chair. Meanwhile, Prowl knelt between his legs, his mouth wrapped around Ratchet’s spike to the hilt, his own hands resting calmly in his lap. 

Prowl’s head did not move, neither up nor down, but his intake bobbed occasionally as he swallowed. His door wings gave the tiniest of barely there twitches, but of arousal in the room, there was no scent of it. 

The sight still made Ironhide’s engine rev. 

“Can we help you?” Ratchet asked, tone so mild, without looking up from his datapad. 

“I, uh, got that report fer Prowl. The one he was askin’ for earlier,” Ironhide said, untucking his datapad and giving it a wiggle for emphasis. 

Ratchet still didn’t look up. But his free hand moved to rest on the back of Prowl’s head, stopping the tiniest of movements as Prowl made to lean back. He kept Prowl pierced on his spike, filling Prowl’s mouth and intake. 

“Is it urgent?” 

“Nah.” Ironhide shook his head, his optics glued on the tremble of Prowl’s lips, and the tiny flex of his intake. 

“Then it can wait. Prowl’s on his break right now.” Ratchet tipped his head toward the desk. “Put it there. He’ll get to it later.” 

Ironhide crossed the floor and put the datapad on the stack in Prowl’s inbox. “And when will that be?” 

By the time he turned, it was enough to catch Ratchet’s smug smirk. “When I overload.” 

Primus. Knowing Ratchet, that could take hours. Of all the mechs Ironhide had ever played with, casually and no, Ratchet had stamina to spare. Especially if he was trying to prove a point or playing a dom/sub game. 

Prowl must have been misbehaving again. Probably not refueling or resting properly. 

Damn, what a punishment though. Ironhide was almost jealous, save it wasn’t in his nature to hand over control of himself to someone else like that. Not even Ratchet, who he trusted like no one else, only second to his Prime. 

“I see.” Ironhide stood there, fidgeting. 

“Was there anything else?” Ratchet asked, tone amused now. His hand was still on the back of Prowl’s head, keeping him in place, not that he seemed to be using any force. It looked more like a reminder. 

Ironhide shook his head and took the hint. He headed to the door. “No, that’s it.” He paused before he opened it. “Uh, tell Prowl to CC me on whatever action he sends ta Prime, will ya?” 

“Noted.” Ratchet’s gaze dropped back to his datapad, not so much as a shiver in his field despite how warm and wet and welcoming Prowl’s mouth must have been. 

Damned lucky medic. 

Ironhide left, and before the door had completely locked shut behind him, he was already pinging Wheeljack. He had an ache in his groin, and a rev in his engine, and he really hoped the engineer was up for a good time right now, because the idea of taking care of it on his own was very unappealing. 

Wheeljack’s reply was a knowing chuckle. “Stopped by Prowl’s office, did ya?” 

“Shut up,” Ironhide said playfully. “You free or not?” 

A low sound, possibly a moan, rippled into the comm. “Why don’t you swing by and find out?” 

Well, that sounded like an invitation if Ironhide ever heard one. 

“Don’t overload without me,” he said, spinning on a heelstrut and making a beeline for Wheeljack’s lab. 

“I don’t make any promises.” 

The line went silent. 

Ironhide hurried. 

Like the Pits he was going to miss out on this.


	2. Public Obedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack didn’t know if not seeing anything made it worse or better. Either way, he was enraptured.

Wheeljack, for all of his wits, could be a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. 

Prowl had been quiet for most of the evening, tucked as he was against Ratchet’s side, one of Ratchet’s arms slung over his shoulders. He’d sipped on his energon, commented a few times, but mostly sat and listened while Ratchet and Wheeljack chattered. 

Wheeljack didn’t think anything of it. 

Then Ironhide joined them later, loudly throwing himself down into the seat next to Wheeljack, and nudging him by the shoulder with a knowing smirk. Why, Wheeljack didn’t think to question. 

Until Prowl shivered. His optics shifted to a darker hue. He fidgeted, and Prowl didn’t fidget, but Ratchet continued on like nothing was the matter. His free hand made broad gestures, nearly threatening to spill his high grade. 

Wheeljack looked between them, a slow realization dawning, as Ironhide’s grin grew broader and he leaned forward against the table, watching with nothing short of eagerness. 

Primus. 

Wheeljack’s fans threatened to spin up. 

Ratch and Prowl didn’t much play in outright public. Behind closed doors with invitations extended to a select few, sure. But not generally right here in front of all and sundry and anyone around in the rec. 

Prowl was notoriously private, but every once in a while, his deeply buried exhibitionist kink reared its head and Ratchet, exhibitionist to the extreme, was always delighted to comply. They really were a perfect match. 

Prowl shivered again and abruptly set his energon on the table, though he kept his hand curled around the cube. He turned in toward Ratchet, almost hiding his face in the broad curve of Ratchet’s windshield. 

“Ratchet,” he said, though it better came out a plea, a visible tremor racing across his plating. 

Ratchet blinked, full of innocence, and looked down at his mate. His fingers stroked the leading edge of Prowl’s nearest doorwing. “Yes, Prowl?” 

Wheeljack’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t the only one rapt. Ironhide stared, and Wheeljack almost swore that the large mech drooled. 

Prowl’s free hand abandoned the cube and moved to slip around Ratchet’s waist, hidden beneath his voluptuous bumper. To the rest of the rec, it almost looked like Prowl was taking a nap on Ratchet’s shoulder. But this close, Wheeljack could feel the sudden heat and need in Prowl’s field. 

“Here?” Prowl asked. 

Ratchet sipped at his mid-grade. He winked at both Wheeljack and Ironhide over the rim of it before he lowered the cube again. “I don’t plan on moving. I’m comfortable. What about you two?” Ratchet’s optics all but sparkled. 

“Never been better,” Wheeljack chirped. 

“Pit, I just got here. Haven’t even had time to realize how hard this chair is yet,” Ironhide said. 

Prowl shivered again, pushing harder against Ratchet’s side. Wheeljack realized, if he listened really, really hard, he could just barely make out the sound of something buzzing. 

Oh, Primus. His own array throbbed hard. 

“There. See?” Ratchet turned his head, brushing his lips over the crown of Prowl’s head. “We’re all comfortable here. So you can just relax, love. And enjoy.” 

Love, he said, yet his lips curled like a devil’s, and there was nothing short of smug dominance in his field. Primus but Ratchet was a menace. Oh, sure. He was kind as all get out, and he cared deeply for his fellow Autobots. But there was a need for control a mile wide in his spark, and that Prowl gave it to him so willingly was like a drug for Ratchet. 

Come to think of it, that was probably the reason he and Ratch never got to be anymore than friends. Wheeljack trusted Ratchet, but he couldn’t imagine giving himself over to someone like that. 

Prowl made a sound, a barely audible whimper, and his movements became more restless, though to the distant observer, they wouldn’t see anything at all. Only this close, at this table, could Wheeljack and Ironhide see how much he squirmed, how his lips parted in a narrow pant, how his optics flared and flashed. 

Ratchet sipped at his energon again. 

Ironhide loudly cycled his vocalizer. “How many?” 

Ratchet slowly licked his lips. “Three,” he said, as nonchalant as you please. 

“Primus,” Ironhide groaned, and sat back, his hand falling to his thigh, but not going any further. Not even he was bold enough to self-service right here and now. “Yer a menace, ya know that?” 

Ratchet chuckled. “Is that jealousy talking?” 

“Not anymore. I can’t wrangle ya, Ratch. I ain’t ashamed to admit that.” 

“Three,” Wheeljack echoed faintly, and his valve clenched on nothing. 

But where? He wondered. One in Prowl’s valve, for sure. One in his secondary port as well. But the third? 

Wheeljack’s optics widened in sudden realization. “No,” he said, with a realized gasp. “Ratch, you didn’t.” 

“I did,” Ratchet said, and sipped demurely at his cube again, while his hand continued to stroke Prowl’s doorwing and Prowl continued to twitch and shake and make cute little noises at his side. 

Sweet Primus on a pogostick. 

Wheeljack’s face heated. What would that feel like, he wondered. To have a vibrating object lodged in your spike sheath, pressing in on your depressurized spike, exciting sensors but not being able to extend your spike. What torture. What pleasure. 

“Ratchet,” Prowl murmured, something in his tone pleading. He quivered, his faceplate heating, turning colors from what little of it Wheeljack could see. 

Ratchet turned back toward his partner. “Yes, Prowl?” he asked, but something in the way he said ‘Prowl’ implied a different designation. 

Prowl didn’t reply, but his doorwings shivered, and he ex-vented noisily, a loud burst of heat from his vents. His cooling fans ticked on with a telling whirr. 

Ratchet placed his cube on the table, cupped Prowl’s head with his free hand, and dragged his fingers up, sliding them around the curve of Prowl’s face before he pinched the tip of Prowl’s chevron. 

Prowl jerked, barely perceptible, and gnawed on his bottom lip. 

“You don’t have to wait on me, Prowl,” Ratchet said, both devious and affectionate, as he dropped his hand back to his cube, settling into the seat as casual as you please. “You’re free to do whatever you want.” 

Prowl whimpered. 

Wheeljack might have, too. 

He didn’t realize he was holding his vents, leaning forward, entirely enraptured, until Ironhide’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. Ironhide was amused, but there was heat in his optics. 

Wheeljack shivered. 

Looked like he had another long night of christening every surface in his laboratory ahead of him. Not that he was at all complaining. 

Ratchet and Prowl were damn inspiring. 

Especially now, as Prowl pushed harder against Ratchet’s side, his engine purring. Permission must have been all he sought, because his lips parted in a soundless cry as he jerked hard, doorwings fluttering, hand forming a fist against Ratchet’s belly. His headlights flickered, emergency sirens warbling on the lowest frequency Wheeljack had ever heard. 

He’d never wanted to bite a set of LEDs so hard in his _life_. 

Prowl’s field flashed, there and gone again, but not so fast Wheeljack wasn’t bombarded with dizzying heat and lust. 

He groaned, his own hands forming fists if only to keep from touching his own equipment. His valve ached, and his spike throbbed, and he was reminded of his own exhibitionist streak. 

Prowl sagged against Ratchet, the tension gone from his frame, his faceplate pink. He didn’t look at Ironhide and Wheeljack, however. If anything, he now actually looked like he was going to recharge. 

“And that’s that,” Ratchet said, putting his now empty cube onto the table. “So if you mechs don’t mind, it looks like Prowl’s done for the night so I think we’re going to skedaddle.” 

Ironhide snorted. “I’ll say.” 

“Shut up, you.” Ratchet laughed as he scooted out of the booth, tugging Prowl with him. “Come on, love. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

“Yes, Ratchet.” 

Wheeljack shivered again. “Have fun,” he said, bracing his chin on his palm and his elbow on the table. He hoped he didn’t sound wistful and jealous. 

Prowl’s cheeks darkened a little. He looked between Wheeljack and Ironhide and dipped his head in a nod. “Thank you for the company,” he said. 

“Anytime,” Ironhide said. 

Wheeljack watched them go, and hoped no one noticed how hard he was staring at Prowl’s aft. There was no outside indication of all the toys stuffed into him, but Wheeljack could imagine them easily enough. 

His finials heated. 

“Well, that’s it for me, too.” Ironhide slapped his hands on the table and stood up, only to peer down at Wheeljack. “Are you decent enough to join me, or would you rather go back to your lab and desecrate another image capture?” 

Wheeljack jerked to his feet, nearly slamming his knees on the underside of the table. “That was – It’s not – I wasn’t--” 

“Oh, yes, you were.” Ironhide chuckled and cupped Wheeljack by the elbow, guiding him away from the table. “What’s worse is Prowl has no idea how sexy he is, too. Am I right?” 

Wheeljack groaned and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Ratchet is a menace. If I didn’t enjoy it so much, I’d ignore his invitations.” 

Ironhide snorted and patted Wheeljack on the aft. “At least we got each other, eh? What say you frag me through the berth tonight?” 

“Deal.” 

And if Wheeljack hurried out of the rec room with a little more speed than was casual, oh the frag well.


	3. Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t want to keep Prowl. That’s not what it’s about. But sometimes, he does like to pretend.

Sometimes, Wheeljack thinks about Prowl when he self-services, and he finds himself overloading, with a mixture of shame and yearning throbbing through his spark.

He thinks about Prowl’s face, before and after overload. The way he looks at Ratchet with so much trust and love, it’s as if his spark is going to burst.

He thinks of Prowl’s bumper. Of his aft. Of the jut of his doorwings and how they shiver right before overload. Or the way he melts at a single look from Ratchet, and how soft and open he is around Ratchet, and that gentle smile he gives Ratchet when he thinks no one is looking.

Those things clash with Wheeljack’s other image of Prowl. The one who is firm and stern, who can give orders on the battlefield, or quiet a room just by walking into it. The almost shy Prowl who hides himself in his office.

But clash or not, it doesn’t stop Wheeljack from whimpering into the berth, his fingers wrapped around his spike or shoved deep in his valve.

It feels kind of like a betrayal, servicing to the thoughts of his best friend’s serious partner, probably mate. Not like he’d ever touch Prowl without either of their permission, or that he even wants to keep Prowl for himself. He just likes thinking about it. Imagining it. Pretending, even, sometimes.

Prowl’s amazing, and Ratchet’s so very lucky.

Wheeljack groans and throws a pillow over his face. Two overloads and he’s still so firm, his spike is aching.

He sighs and activates his comm.

He really, really hopes Ironhide isn’t on shift right now. Because clearly, this is a problem best suited for _two_.

 


	4. Over the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack is more than happy to accept Ratchet and Prowl’s invitations, but sometimes, he just doesn’t understand them.

It was not the oddest invitation Wheeljack had ever received from Ratchet, but it was certainly the most disconcerting. It was also not the first time he’d received a list of instructions regarding his own behavior. Ratch trusted him. It was why he was often invited to witness one of Ratchet and Prowl’s sessions.  
  
But this… this was something else entirely.  
  
_Do not interrupt for any reason_ , Ratchet had warned, in bolded glyphs for emphasis. _He is going to say ‘no’. He is going to tell me to ‘stop’. And I’m not going to._  
  
That bothered Wheeljack a little. It made him squirm deep down inside, but part of him wasn’t entirely sure if it was lust or discomfort or an off-putting mix of both.  
  
_If you can’t watch without trying to intervene, don’t come_ , Ratchet added. _If you shove him out of his headspace, I will remove yours and shove it up your aft, understand?_  
  
Wheeljack had debated with himself long and hard about whether or not he would do this. In the end, lust and curiosity won out. He wanted to watch. He wanted to accept this invitation.  
  
And wasn’t at all surprised when he arrived at Ratchet’s quarters at nearly the same time as Ironhide, the Prime’s bodyguard grinning from audial to audial, his field already dizzy with lust, and his armor billowing heat.  
  
“You, too, eh?” he said as he hit the call button to request access.  
  
Wheeljack nodded and wriggled his datapad. “Did you get some weird instructions, too?” He tucked said datapad back into his subspace.  
  
Ironhide laughed. “Just the one.” He leaned in close, lips inches from Wheeljack’s audial. “My job is to make sure ya don’t do anythin’ stupid.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wheeljack demanded, indignant.  
  
Ironhide leaned back, lips curved. “Look, I’ve seen this before. And I know how you think, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor with a fetish for reserved tacticians. You ain’t savin’ no one from nothin’, so I need to make sure ya don’t try. Got me?”  
  
Wheeljack ground his denta, even as the door slid open to admit them. “It’s not a fetish,” he bit out as he followed Ironhide inside, the door nearly clipping his aft in its urgency to close.  
  
“Sure it ain’t.” Ironhide snorted.  
  
Wheeljack wanted to retort, but the words died on his glossa. Instead, he nearly swallowed said glossa, and may have briefly forgotten how to ventilate.  
  
The scene had already begun apparently. There would be no waiting around for the set up. Not at all. Prowl was already bound and on display, with two chairs arranged near enough to see everything, but not interfere.  
  
Ironhide took a seat, and Wheeljack blindly groped for his, unable to look away from the enticing sight.  
  
Ratchet had Prowl pulled to the very edge of the berth, though enough pillows stacked up behind him to support his back and head. He was partially reclined, which allowed him to see both Ratchet, and the two invited voyeurs. But his wrists had been bound to his ankles, and ropes looped around his knees, which were then bound to something under the berth, keeping his legs spread and open. His interface array was on full display, and Wheeljack’s mouth went dry.  
  
Prowl’s spike had been locked away, and his secondary port panel was closed as well, but his valve was bared, already swollen with arousal and soaking wet. Lubricant glimmered in the shadows of it, and glittered where it trickled over the caudal lip and down the curve of his aft. The urge to lick those plump folds – decorated in vertical strips of grey and red – rose up in Wheeljack so fast his mouth filled with lubricant and his engine gave the quietest of revs.  
  
Ironhide grabbed Wheeljack’s nearest wrist and tugged him. He all but fell into his chair, his spark hammering in his chest, and his array slamming into readiness with a speed that nearly hurt.  
  
“Behave,” he hissed.  
  
“I am,” Wheeljack snapped.  
  
“You’re late,” Ratchet said. He stood to Prowl’s right, one of his hands resting on Prowl’s knees, the other propped on his hip. He didn’t look annoyed. If anything, Ratchet looked like the turbofox which caught the metallocanary.  
  
Wheeljack cycled his optics. “We’re right on time.”  
  
Ironhide squeezed his wrist as though in warning before he let Wheeljack go. “Sorry, Ratch.”  
  
“I didn’t wait,” Ratchet said, his tone conversational, even as his hand slowly slid down Prowl’s knee, toward his thigh and hip. “Which Prowl is grateful for. Aren’t you?” The lazy rasp of metal over metal was captivating.  
  
Prowl visibly shivered, the blue of his optics darkening to an oceanic hue. “Y-yes, Ratchet,” he said, glossa flicking over his lips. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Prowl,” Ratchet purred, his hand now resting at the apex of Prowl’s thigh, fingers curved around it, millimeters from his valve. “Ironhide, did you get my memo?”  
  
“I did.” Ironhide shifted around in his chair and rested a hand on Wheeljack’s thigh, giving it a pat. “Ya ain’t got nothing to worry about, Ratch. Right, ‘Jack?”  
  
Wheeljack’s intake bobbed. He found himself watching Ratchet’s hands with perhaps a little more scrutiny than was merited. “Right.”  
  
“Good.” Ratchet’s fingers slid toward Prowl’s array, his palm skating over the puffy, dripping pleats of it. “Because someone here has a lesson to learn. Tell them what you did, Prowl.”  
  
Prowl’s engine whined. His ventilations hitched. “I-I overloaded without permission,” he said, breathless, his frame twitching in the confines of his bonds. The biolights around his array were pulsing fitfully, his optical lenses fully dilated.  
  
The air was thick with the smell of lust, of lubrication, and Wheeljack swallowed another groan. Heat pooled behind his array.  
  
“For which the punishment is…?” Ratchet prompted with a quick flick to Prowl’s anterior node cluster, the crimson nub swollen and bright.  
  
Prowl’s back arched. His headlights flashed. He moaned, optics falling to half-shutter. Charge snapped like little fireworks from beneath his armor. He was already close. Wheeljack had seen Prowl close to overload enough times to recognize the signs.  
  
Ratchet pinched Prowl’s anterior node. “Prowl.”  
  
Prowl stirred. “T-to overload on your command.”  
  
“Until?”  
  
“Until I’m allowed to stop.” Prowl’s vocals were more dreamy now, enraptured, and his gaze had shifted to Ratchet, staring at him with the kind of open awe mechs tended to reserve for their first meeting with Prime.  
  
Ratchet met Prowl’s gaze, his touch to Prowl’s nub almost incidental, save that his fingers worked in tiny, tiny circles. Prowl’s hips moved, as little as he was able, to match Ratchet’s motions.  
  
“That’s right,” Ratchet purred and Wheeljack had to swallow a whimper. “Now give me the first one.”  
  
Prowl’s engine whined. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his hips bucking against Ratchet’s fingers, liberally soaked in his lubricant. His hands curled into shaking fists, and his head tossed back as he overloaded, charge crawling over his armor in a burst of blue fire.  
  
Ironhide’s fingers dug into Wheeljack’s thigh plating. “Breathe, ‘Jack,” he said, subvocal.  
  
Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation. He forced himself to lean back, as he’d moved to the edge of his seat. He sat on his hands to stop himself from scrubbing over his groin, though Ironhide seemed to have no such hesitation. His free hand was tracing his array seam, though he hadn’t exposed his equipment.  
  
“Very good, Prowl,” Ratchet said as his fingers continued to rub and pluck over Prowl’s anterior cluster, though it had to be sensitive in the wake of his overload.  
  
Prowl’s engine revved. His optics returned to Ratchet, though they were hazy. His hips moved in little circles with Ratchet’s fingers. He ex-vented shakily.  
  
“Now I want another,” Ratchet murmured.  
  
His thumb pressed circles on Prowl’s nub, but his fingers moved down, two stroking over Prowl’s swollen rim before they plunged inside. Prowl whined, thighs trembling, his lips parting in a breathy ex-vent.  
  
“Y-yes, Ratchet,” he stammered, his doorwings twitching restlessly behind his shoulders. His field, what little of it Wheeljack could sense, turned liquid with pleasure. His hips moved in stuttered bursts, riding Ratchet’s fingers.  
  
He was beautiful. Wheeljack couldn’t help but be enraptured, almost sorry that he wasn’t allowed to record this in any way. He would have to do with his memory alone, when tucked away in his private berth, whimpering around the toy shoved in his valve.  
  
Prowl was gorgeous. His submission to Ratchet even more so, and the hungry rocks of his hips were intoxicating. He shivered and shook, biolights pulsing, valve spilling lubricant, as Ratchet continued to press hard circles on his nub. Prowl sucked in vent after vent, optics hazy, but focused on Ratchet.  
  
Prowl licked his lips, doorwings fluttering. His valve lips were puffy and swollen, his anterior node increasing in size. His vents turned ragged, his little moans staticky.  
  
Wheeljack’s own vents stuttered. He found himself leaning forward and forward, until Ironhide’s hand on his chestplate shoved him back.  
  
“Ought get ya a seatbelt like the humans got,” Ironhide muttered, subvocal, too quiet for Prowl to pick up, as distracted as he was  
  
Wheeljack shot him a glare, but it melted away when Prowl whimpered and made a caught sound. He looked back just in time to see Prowl jerk, another spill of static lighting up his armor in blue fire. The room filled with the scent of arousal, of overload, and Wheeljack’s in-vents sucked it up.  
  
“Very good,” Ratchet murmured as Prowl twitched and panted on the berth.  
  
Ratchet leaned in and nuzzled Prowl’s helm, even as he slowly withdrew his fingers from Prowl’s valve, the red digits liberally streaked with lubricant. Prowl whimpered, his hips rising as little as they were capable, as though chasing Ratchet’s fingers.  
  
“Y-your fingers...” Prowl mumbled, his optics hazy and his ventilations coarse.  
  
Ratchet leaned back, blinking innocently. “Yes?” He lifted his hand, admiring the lubricant drenching his fingers and now dripping down his palm and wrist. “They are quite dirty, aren’t they. I do believe that’s your fault, love. Care to clean them for me?”  
  
Prowl’s tongue swept over lips before they parted in silent offer and Wheeljack had to swallow a moan as Ratchet’s fingers painted lubricant over Prowl’s lips. Prowl made a hungry noise, mouth chasing after Ratchet’s fingers before he sucked them into his mouth. The noisy smack of his lips and glossa over them might as well have been a taunt.  
  
Wheeljack’s vents gusted scorching air.  
  
Beside him, Ironhide chuckled so quietly it was nearly inaudible. “You’re so fraggin’ predictable,” he murmured.  
  
“Shut up,” Wheeljack said.  
  
Prowl moaned just then and Wheeljack’s attention snapped back toward him. His hands formed fists in his lap as he watched Ratchet slowly withdraw his fingers from Prowl’s mouth, the tips of them lingering on Prowl’s bottom lip.  
  
“Mmm, much better,” Ratchet said, his voice humming with approval.  
  
Prowl undulated in his bonds. “I didn’t mean...” He shuddered, and his valve visibly contracted, lubricant oozing free, as his biolights fitfully pulsed. “I want them back.”  
  
“Oh, is that so?” Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s bumper, thumb sweeping over a headlight before it dragged down, down, ever so slowly, and Prowl trembled. “After you’ve gone through all the trouble to to make them clean? You want them back in your valve, is that it?”  
  
“Yes,” Prowl pleaded. His fingers squeezed in and out of fists, his ventilations whooshing noisily. “Please.”  
  
Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s groin, just above his valve, the weight of his palm on the cover to Prowl’s spike.  
  
“Tell you what,” Ratchet said with a flick to Prowl’s spike-cover before he lifted his hand, and Prowl whimpered.  
  
Wheeljack might have echoed him.  
  
“I have a better idea,” Ratchet continued and groped at his subspace, withdrawing a false spike that made Wheeljack’s valve clench, and he wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or dread.  
  
The toy was thick, easily more so than was standard, and it was riddled with ridges and bumps and whorls. It looked heavy in Ratchet’s hand, like a weapon, yet the sight of it made Prowl whine, his hips canting upward, his aft glittering with dribbled lubricant.  
  
“This, I believe, is a better substitute, don’t you think?” Ratchet asked as he nudged the rounded, bulbous tip against Prowl’s anterior node.  
  
Prowl’s hips bucked. He whooshed a ventilation. He gnawed on his bottom lip.  
  
“Yes, Ratchet,” he wheezed.  
  
Yes, _please_ , Wheeljack wanted to say. He was enraptured. He couldn’t look away.  
  
“Would you like it, love?” Ratchet all but crooned, his words syrupy sweet, but with a devious edge to them that made Ironhide swear and shift in his chair. “Are you empty? Do you crave something inside you? So deep it touches all of those nodes and makes them sing?”  
  
Prowl’s head jerked in a nod. Wheeljack’s optics tracked another drop of lubricant as it oozed free, dangled from the caudal lip of his valve, and drizzled further down.  
  
“Come now, love.” Ratchet circled the head of the false spike against Prowl’s anterior cluster before he rubbed it over the entrance to Prowl’s valve. “You have to speak up so the audience can hear you. After all, there may be some question as to whether or not you truly want this.”  
  
Ratchet’s smirk was a subtle thing, but the devious look he tossed over his shoulder in Wheeljack’s direction was far from it.  
  
That _aft_.  
  
Wheeljack ground his denta so hard he tasted sparks.  
  
Prowl keened a moan. “I-I want it,” he said, hips jerking, the berth creaking, his engine revving and roaring. “Please, Ratchet. May I have it?”  
  
“Of course, you may,” Ratchet purred, and the tip of the false spike pressed against the plump folds of Prowl’s rim, nudging against them with an audible squish of lubricant.  
  
Wheeljack wheezed as Prowl’s backstrut arched, as his head tilted back, as thighs trembling. Inch by inch, the spike slid into him, and inch by nubbed inch, Prowl’s valve swallowed it. His engine roared, a whine rose in his intake, while charge crackled and danced over his armor.  
  
He went taut, like someone caught on the edge, his face one of sheer, agonized bliss. And then he tumbled over it, whimpering as he overloaded, as the spike seated itself so deep the end was barely visible, and his rim visibly contracted around it.  
  
Wheeljack whimpered, too, and was glad that Prowl’s pleasure was louder than he was. Ironhide blazed like a furnace next to him, his vents rattling and roaring, the shove of his palm over his array more urgent. But they both knew the rules.  
  
They didn’t expose their equipment, but Primus how Wheeljack wanted to. He ached everywhere.  
  
“Three,” Ratchet said, the heel of his palm keeping the false spike deep within Prowl. His other hand came into view, bearing a small device which he slipped over his own fingers. “Let’s dive right into four, shall we?”  
  
There was a click, a buzz, and then Prowl all but shrieked, frame snapping against the berth. His hips bucked, and his knees yanked on the bindings, and his doorwings smacked the pillows behind him. His lips peeled back into a snarl over gritted denta, flashing optics vanishing behind optical shutters, and his field exploded, so hot and raw with lust that Wheeljack drowned in it.  
  
He groaned, lolling forward, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh was a vise, a metal-denting vise that kept him pinned in his chair, even though he knew he had to be leaking through his seams, soaking the seat of it with his lubricant.  
  
What did that feel like, he wondered. To be catapulted straight toward another overload while still reeling from the one before it. Did it hurt?  
  
Wheeljack couldn’t tell from Prowl’s expression or his field, which was a swirling vortex of pain-pleasure-need-want. Prowl shook in the confines of his bounds, his vents heaving, his plating lifted away from his protoform.  
  
Barely could Wheeljack hear the soft buzz of the vibrating device Ratchet circled over his swollen, angry anterior node. Two fingers kept the thick false spike deep in Prowl’s valve, no doubt grinding it against his ceiling node, his calipers struggling to clasp around it.  
  
Prowl whined, a high, needy sound, and he bucked harshly. His optics flashed, lubricant seeping out from around the false spike, and his field flooded the room with heat. He collapsed back into the pillows as Ratchet’s fingers moved away, the vibrator deactivated, leaving them a clear view of Prowl’s flickering, swollen nub.  
  
“That’s four,” Ratchet said, still impressively calm. Wheeljack admired his control. He didn’t know how Ratchet was resisting the pretty sight Prowl made. “Do you want another?”  
  
Prowl moaned, his head lolling, his armor clattering. “N-no, Ratchet.”  
  
“Then it’s a shame that’s not your call to make,” Ratchet said and the low buzz of the vibrator became loud, as it was reactivated and intensified.  
  
Prowl whimpered. “N-no...” He twitched in his bonds, his expression pained. “Hurts.”  
  
“I know it does,” Ratchet said, calmly, terribly calm and in control. “And it burns. Like the press of an iron, yes?”  
  
Prowl jerked his head in a nod.  
  
“A fire so hot it burns cold,” Ratchet murmured, relentless as he rubbed the vibrator over Prowl’s anterior node, so swollen it had doubled in size. “A pleasure so consuming it becomes pain, until it rebounds back again. Am I right?”  
  
Prowl’s optics shuttered. He whined.  
  
Ratchet leaned closer. “I’m talking to you, love,” he growled. “Are you listening to me?”  
  
Prowl’s optics snapped back open. His hands were in such tight fists that his knuckles ached. “Y-yes, R-R-Ratchet.”  
  
“Then you’re going to do as I say and give me another overload,” Ratchet demanded.  
  
Prowl’s armor rattled. “I can’t,” he gasped, his optics bleeding color. His hips jerked, engine roaring, the scent of hot metal so thick in the air. “I can’t. P-please, d-don’t.”  
  
“It wasn’t a request,” Ratchet said.  
  
Prowl whimpered.  
  
Wheeljack almost lurched out of his seat, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh kept him pinned. He sucked in several ventilations, realizing that at some point he’d matched his own to Prowl’s frantic struggle, and it left him dizzy.  
  
He was hot, scorching, both valve and spike demanding attention. As much as he wanted to jump across the room, fling open those restraints, and soothe Prowl’s aches.  
  
“Don’t,” Ironhide said.  
  
Wheeljack almost whined himself.  
  
“You seem to have forgotten the point of this,” Ratchet said, his finger circling and circling, pinning that angry vibration against Prowl’s pitiful node.  
  
Prowl sobbed, his face turning, tucking into his own shoulder. His optics were squeezed shut, oral vents desperately sucked through his mouth.  
  
“Punishment, love, is not meant to be enjoyed.” Ratchet’s circles became tighter, more focused, as though seeking the most sensitive angle and aggressively assaulting it. “And I am meant to be obeyed. So you will overload again. Understand?”  
  
Prowl’s answer was to whine, his engine making a pathetic sound. His face was hidden, but his hips twitched and jerked. His cooling fans rattled, his legs and thighs visibly shaking.  
  
Ratchet leaned in close to Prowl’s face, pressing his forehead to Prowl’s chevron. His fingers continued their assault on Prowl’s anterior node.  
  
“I want your overload,” Ratchet almost hissed, his tone firm and commanding, for all that affection peered at the most distant edges. “And you will give it to me. Now.”  
  
Prowl shrieked through gritted denta. His entire frame jolted, hands clenched into creaking fists, valve folds visibly contracting around the end of the false spike. The charge that leapt out from his substructure was electric and lit up the room.  
  
“Mmm. Thank you, love,” Ratchet said with a nuzzle to Prowl’s face. His fingers slid away from Prowl’s anterior node, the vibrator still faintly buzzing. “Almost done.”  
  
Almost? Wheeljack nearly choked on a ventilation.  
  
Prowl moaned dully, his head lolling. “Hurts,” he mumbled.  
  
“I know.” Ratchet shifted, sliding away from Prowl, but only so that he could climb onto the berth.  
  
He shoved the pillows aside as he put himself in their place, cradling Prowl between his legs and against his front. His arms curled around Prowl’s sides and dipped down between the tactician’s thighs, delicately framing Prowl’s stuffed and swollen valve.  
  
Ratchet tilted his head against Prowl’s, his expression a mixture of devilish need and proud affection. One hand stroked around Prowl’s rim, teasing the soaked, swollen mesh. The other, with the vibrator, returned to Prowl’s anterior node, though he only circled the housing around it.  
  
“I think you have more in you, love,” Ratchet said with a smirk and a glance to Wheeljack and Ironhide. “I think you’re going to give me one more. Just so we both know that you are sorry for your misbehavior.”  
  
Prowl’s ventilations hitched. His optics unshuttered by half, becoming slits of dim blue. “No, Ratchet. Please.” He whimpered, hips attempting to twitch away from Ratchet’s hands. “I can’t.”  
  
“And who decides that, hm? Certainly not you.” Ratchet’s fingers gently stroked over Prowl’s array, circling in closer and closer to the blazing heat of his puffy node. “Besides, you don’t want to disappoint your audience, do you? Go on. Look at them.”  
  
Wheeljack’s vents caught in his intake. He froze. His internals throbbed with heat as Prowl lifted his head achingly slow, his gaze turning on both Wheeljack and Ironhide. His faceplate filled with heat, darkening in color, but his valve pulsed and his field throbbed so prettily with arousal.  
  
Prowl’s glossa flicked over his lips, even as he shook in Ratchet’s arms.  
  
“You’re beautiful, love. They know it and I know it. I think they believe you’re contrite, too,” Ratchet continued, something hypnotizing in his words, in the tender touches that gradually turned more and more aggressive.  
  
The vibrator was buzzing again, oh so lightly, getting closer and closer to Prowl’s nub. Prowl whimpered, still trying to twitch his hips away, but there was nowhere to go.  
  
“Another overload, and I’ll start to believe it, too,” Ratchet insisted, less urge and more command, the vibrator coming perilously near to Prowl’s nub.  
  
Prowl visibly sobbed. “Don’t want to,” he said, optics hazy, ventilations coming sharper and faster. “ _Can’t_.”  
  
“You can and you will,” Ratchet insisted and applied the vibrator to Prowl’s nub, direct where before it had been a tease.  
  
Prowl keened, head tossing back, frame thrashing in his bindings as he overloaded, lightning snarling out from beneath his armor.  
  
Wheeljack thought Ratchet would back off then. Surely he could smell the scorched metal, the bitterness of hot lubricant, the ozone of a burnt circuit. But no, if anything, Ratchet became more relentless. He plunged the false spike in and out of Prowl’s valve, leaning harder with the vibrator against Prowl’s node, and Prowl’s keening turned to a shriek.  
  
His back bowed, into a sharp parabolic curve that Wheeljack was amazed he was capable of. He must have overloaded again, if the need boiling in his field was any indication. So soon on the heels of the one before! Could it be anything but agony at this point?  
  
Wheeljack panted, enraptured, unable to take his optics away. He drank in the sight of Prowl thrashing, his cries sinful in Wheeljack’s audials.  
  
“No, no, no, no, no,” Prowl wailed, the mumbling litany nearly incomprehensible. He sounded wrecked. “Please!”  
  
And still, Ratchet persisted. “Almost,” he said, breathless and fierce, his optics so bright and dangerous. “One more. You can do it.”  
  
Prowl’s frame creaked, his doorwings battering against Ratchet’s front. He’d squeezed his optics back shut, his denta clenched, his field begging for relief.  
  
“Come on, love,” Ratchet insisted, vibrator so fast and strong that the sound echoed in Wheeljack’s audials, made his processor spin. “Last one.”  
  
Prowl’s head jerked back, his intake bared, and his entire frame went taut, frozen as if caught in time. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, even his vents stalled. The brightest flare of charge erupted over his armor, snapping back against Ratchet’s. He froze, arrested by ecstasy, frame twitching so minutely it could barely be seen, until he abruptly dropped, collapsing back against Ratchet.  
  
His cooling fans started up again, roaring. His vents hiccuped. But he was slack in Ratchet’s arms, unconscious.  
  
Wheeljack leaned forward, his spark throbbing. Ironhide’s hand was a heavy weight on his chestplate, but he itched to do something. Anything. Prowl had sounded so desperate, so hurt.  
  
//Hush.//  
  
He startled at the abrupt comm. His gaze swung back to Ratchet.  
  
//He’s fine,// Ratchet said, though he wasn’t looking anywhere near Wheeljack. //He’s in a reset. He’ll wake shortly. So be quiet. I don’t want your voice to be the first thing he hears when he onlines.//  
  
Even as he commed Wheeljack, he was inactivating the vibrator and tossing it to the berth beside him. His hands were gently petting over Prowl’s frame, loosening the bindings but not removing them completely.  
  
//Ratch, I don’t--//  
  
//If you have questions, I’ll answer them later,// Ratchet replied, sounding distracted. //For now, just be still and silent. Close your optics if you can’t bear to watch.//  
  
Ironhide’s hand slid from Wheeljack’s chestplate down to his knee. He patted it carefully, quietly, before he leaned in. “This ain’t nothin’ new,” he murmured, so quiet it probably didn’t carry past Wheeljack’s audials. “Just follow my cues ‘nd I promise Ratch won’t get mad at’cha.”  
  
Wheelljack made a noncommittal noise, even as a soft sound emerged from Prowl and he started to stir. His optics lit, dim at first, but then gaining brightness. He made a questioning sound, to which Ratchet immediately noticed.  
  
“Shhh, I have you,” Ratchet was murmuring, every touch gentle and careful as he unknotted the bindings and eased Prowl’s limbs out of their stiff posture.  
  
Prowl’s mouth opened, but his vocalizer produced static interspersed with a whimper. Ratchet moved his limbs for him as Prowl rested against his chassis, his expression one of exhaustion and satisfaction.  
  
“I’m so proud of you, love,” Ratchet said, his attention on removing the bonds and easing Prowl’s limbs. “You did perfectly. You were so obedient. So beautiful.”  
  
Prowl’s face tucked into Ratchet’s intake, little tremors racing through his frame. Yet, Ratchet continued to speak to him.  
  
It was a constant litany of reassurance, and Ratchet’s field echoed it, pulsing love and comfort and pride, wrapping around Prowl like a blanket. Prowl clutched at him, his face streaked with optical fluid, his thighs trembling, but he wouldn’t bring his legs together.  
  
Wheeljack doubted he could. His valve was so swollen it had to be tender. His node was a bright, angry color, nearly doubled in size. Was there even a drop of lubricant left in Prowl’s tank? He didn’t know.  
  
Prowl whimpered, again, as Ratchet eased the false spike from his valve. It was liberally coated in lubricant, and Prowl’s valve contracted in it’s wake. Yet, he was also loose and open, his valve folds swollen, and some of the interior of his valve visible to Wheeljack and Ironhide both.  
  
The toy was set aside. Ratchet slipped a single finger into Prowl’s valve, shushing him again when he whimpered.  
  
“Shhh, it’s all right. I’m just checking for damage, but there is none, as I knew there wouldn’t be.” Ratchet pressed a kiss to the side of Prowl’s face. “Don’t I always take care of you, love?”  
  
Prowl gave no answer. At least none that Wheeljack could hear.  
  
Wheeljack ex-vented quietly, hoping not to gain Prowl’s attention and disturb him. He leaned back in his chair, feeling jittery and out of sorts.  
  
The tension was gone from the room. Wheeljack shifted again, uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Ratchet’s murmurings were so sweet, so loving, that Wheeljack now felt like an intruder of a different sort.  
  
He wondered if there were supposed to go, and followed Ironhide’s advice, looking at the other mech for guidance. Ironhide shook his head and made a shushing noise.  
  
They would wait then.  
  
Wheeljack looked at Ratchet and Prowl again, who were curled together on the berths as lovers might in a post-coital glow. If it weren’t for Prowl’s subtly parted thighs, and subsequent bare valve, it might have felt like a different story.  
  
“There we go, love, all better,” Ratchet said, at last, and he patted Prowl’s chestplate, over his Autobot symbol. “You can recharge soon, I promise. First, you need to thank our guests.”  
  
Prowl stirred, his hazy optics shifting toward Ironhide and Wheeljack. There was no embarrassment, just a bleary acknowledgment.  
  
“Thank you,” he rasped, obedient.  
  
“Yer welcome, Prowl,” Ironhide said as he leveraged himself to his feet, though Wheeljack did not fail to miss the way his knees wobbled. “Ya did good, mech. Proud of ya.”  
  
Prowl’s face pinked, and he tucked it back into Ratchet’s intake.  
  
Ironhide nudged Wheeljack with an elbow, and Wheeljack lurched to his feet with less grace than he usually had.  
  
“Uh, yeah. Happy ta help,” Wheeljack said, rubbing the back of his head.  
  
Ironhide elbowed him again, coughing a vent.  
  
Wheeljack worked his intake. “And, uh, good job! You’re forgiven.” His indicators flashed, and he hoped it was an encouraging color.  
  
The look Ratchet gave him was both contemplative and tense. Something to worry about later, Wheeljack supposed. He and Ratchet were gonna have to have a serious talk, because Wheeljack wasn’t sure about what all he saw, and he kinda wished he’d had a more... in-depth warning.  
  
“Thank you, Wheeljack. Ironhide.” Ratchet nodded at them both before his attention turned back to Prowl.  
  
Wheeljack took that for dismissal. And he was right, because Ironhide snagged his elbow and tugged him toward the door. Wheeljack only looked over his shoulder once, to see Ratchet and Prowl kissing. Gentle-like, as though they were two lovers who’d just been sharing the sweetest of spark-merges.  
  
It boggled the processor.  
  
In the hallway, the door beeping a lock behind them, Ironhide didn’t so much as pause. He just made a beeline for the storage room across the hall and honestly, Wheeljack was pretty damn grateful.  
  
He didn’t know entirely how he felt, save that his knees trembled, his valve ached, his spike throbbed, and he was pretty sure he’d left drips behind him. He wanted to overload, needed to, and he all but threw himself at Ironhide once the storage shut behind them.  
  
“Frag me,” he gasped, pawing at Ironhide’s chest, trying to hitch a leg around the larger mech’s waist.  
  
Ironhide growled, grabbed his aft, and lifted him up. Wheeljack’s panel snapped aside mere seconds before Ironhide pinned him against the wall, and his spike filled Wheeljack in one quick, deep push.  
  
Wheeljack moaned, head knocking back against the wall, vents roaring. His valve quivered with relief, clutching hungrily at Ironhide’s spike, and he moaned again when Ironhide didn’t bother to tease either of them. He pounded into Wheeljack, fragging him against the wall, no grace, just mindless pursuit of pleasure.  
  
Thank fragging Primus.  
  
Overload came far too quickly, Wheeljack’s vents gasping as he keened. He writhed on Ironhide’s spike, even as the larger mech spilled hotly into him, hips pumping in deep, satisfying grinds.  
  
“Gahhh.” Ironhide’s forehead knocked against the wall beside Wheeljack’s head. He ex-vented hotly. “Primus, what they do ta me,” he groaned.  
  
Wheeljack tightened his thighs around Ironhide’s waist and rolled his hips. “Again,” he demanded, urgent, his valve still cycling desperately, his spark throbbing.  
  
He didn’t precisely know _why_ , except that he wanted the pleasure to chase away all else. To remind himself that this was supposed to be fun, and it was. But it had also been optic-opening and revelatory and he kind of didn’t want to think right now.  
  
Ironhide chuckled. “One more,” he said. “And then we go to a room and a real berth so ya can frag the spark outta me, too.”  
  
“Deal.” His heels drummed against the back of Ironhide’s thighs, even as Ironhide’s rumbling engine growled through them both.  
  
Wheeljack panted, processor spinning as Ironhide started to thrust once more, the heavy drag of his spike the perfect sensation and distraction both. He tightened his arms over Ironhide’s shoulders and gave in to it.  
  
The rest he’d worry about later. 


	5. A New Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironhide has a concern, but Prowl is ever the distracting picture, one too enticing to resist.

Ironhide had hemmed and hawed and debated with himself for a week before he decided enough was enough and he had to say something. Because Wheeljack never would, the self-sacrificing fool, and Ratchet wasn’t paying attention.   
  
So while they three piled into Prowl and Ratchet’s quarters – the two idjits finally agreed to start sharing instead of pretending they weren’t – Ironhide chose his words carefully.   
  
“Ya should stop invitin’ Wheeljack,” he said, blunt and to the point. So maybe he hadn’t been as careful as he should have.   
  
Ratchet leaned back into the thin couch. “Why?” he asked as Prowl came around with the decanter of spiced mid-grade, filling his cube. “You bored of playing with him already?” His lips curled. A tease then.   
  
Ironhide shook his head and lifted his empty cube, giving it a waggle. “He’s getting attached,” he said.  
  
Ratchet scoffed. “Pft. That’s ridiculous.”   
  
“Perhaps not.” Prowl’s voice floated from behind Ironhide before he moved into view with the decanter of energon. Should have known not to think he was done yet. “I believe Ironhide may be correct. I enjoy an audience, Ratchet, but not at the expense of someone’s emotions.”   
  
Ratchet stared at of them, and he looked baffled. “You both are wrong. Wheeljack’s fine.”   
  
Prowl carefully filled Ironhide’s cube as Ironhide shook his head. “Yer pretty blind for a mech ‘sposed to be diagnosin’ folks,” he drawled. “And yeah, it ain’t attachment like love, and it ain’t about keepin’ Prowl either.” He lifted his chin to thank Prowl, who replied with a head tilt of his own.   
  
Prowl set the decanter on the table between them. Wise mech. Wouldn’t want to have to go fetch it again, now would he? “Wheeljack is a romantic,” he said, thoughtful tone at the forefront, as he tucked himself onto the couch next to Ratchet. “He envies you.”   
  
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. He squinted at Ironhide, then his mate, and then back again. “You’re serious.” His arm slipped over Prowl’s shoulders, hand curving inward so that his fingers could stroke over the barely visible collar around Prowl’s intake.   
  
They enjoyed this, the subtle displays of their relationship in front of those privy to the truth. It gave them the freedom to be themselves, and it had stopped bothering Ironhide decades, frag probably even centuries, ago.   
  
They just spun themselves their own way, and Ironhide reaped the benefits of a sexy and adorable free show.   
  
“Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.” Ironhide sipped his energon and leaned back. “Jack’s a mighty fun dance partner and I’d hate ta lose ‘im, but he wants more than I wanna give.”   
  
Ironhide liked Wheeljack, he really did. But he’d always been something of a wandering spark, never one to settle and commit himself. He had the feeling Wheeljack probably started out thinking he just wanted some fun, but started aching for something with a little more permanence.   
  
He’d seen the way Wheeljack looked at Prowl and Ratchet. Half in awe, half in lust, and one-hundred percent in envy. Not because he wanted to frag Prowl – which he did, frag, Ironhide wouldn’t mind tumbling that pretty himself so who could blame him? – but because he wanted what Prowl and Ratchet had: a meaningful relationship full of love and trust.   
  
“He doesn’t _want_ Prowl,” Ratchet snapped, defensive. Probably out of guilt because bringing in Wheeljack had been his idea from the start.   
  
They’d asked Ironhide his opinion, too. At the time, he’d thought it was a great idea. Jack was the sort of mech ya could trust, and he tended to roll with the punches, so he wasn’t likely to cause a fuss.   
  
Now, Ironhide wondered if maybe he should’ve been paying better attention, too. How could he have missed that longing? Wheeljack’s favorite genre was romance, sometimes with a hint of comedy after all. Loved the ballads, Wheeljack did, though Primus knew he couldn’t carry a tune with all the buckets in the world.   
  
“No.” Prowl snuggled into Ratchet’s side, his sensory panels pinned between himself and the back of the couch. “He wants what I stand for.”   
  
Ah. So Prowl had noticed, too.   
  
“Not a game like what you play either,” Ironhide said, giving his cube a wiggle, though it was yet half-full. “But a sparkling tale. Knight in armor.”   
  
Ratchet frowned. “It’s not a game.” His thumb stroked Prowl’s collar, hooking under the delicate platinum band and giving it a small tug. “It never has been.”   
  
Ironhide waved a dismissing hand. “I know that, Ratch. Been knowin’ that. So quit dodgin’.”   
  
Ratchet ex-vented noisily then and scrubbed his free hand down his face. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”   
  
“Sure that’s a good idea?” Ironhide asked.   
  
“There’s been some kind of misunderstanding here. Clear communication is--”  
  
“--only going to make him feel worse,” Prowl interjected as he slid a hand to Ratchet’s thigh, fingers gently stroking up and down the white armor. “Especially if we continue to invite Ironhide, yet exclude him from this moment on.”   
  
Ratchet growled, his free hand grabbing Prowl’s and setting it aside. Not in the mood apparently. He’d gotten his fanbelts all in a twist.   
  
“Then what do you suggest?”   
  
Ironhide shrugged. “Redirection,” he said, and purposefully took a long, lingering drag of his energon.   
  
Ratchet scowled. “What?” He sounded offended. Well, tough.  
  
Prowl tucked his hands under his thighs, his optics turned toward the floor. Ah, that wordless chastisement must have stung. “He may have a point,” he said. “Perhaps if Wheeljack had a partner of his own...”   
  
“I’m not going to… to… trick Wheeljack into being with someone else,” Ratchet snapped, jerking forward, nearly unseating Prowl from beside him. He visibly bristled.   
  
“That ain’t it, Ratch! Primus!” Ironhide rolled his optics and finished off his cube, crunching it into non-existence. “We’re just sayin’, I dunno, see if there’s someone his type and see if they spark.”   
  
Ratchet leaned forward entirely, bracing his elbows on his knees. “If there was anyone in the Ark like that, don’t you think I’d know?”   
  
Ironhide smirked. “Who says they gotta be an Autobot?”   
  
“A Decepticon?” Ratchet pinched his chevron as he sighed. “Seriously?”   
  
“Why not?” Prowl, Ironhide noticed, did not pout as visibly as say someone like Sunstreaker or Mirage, but the flutter of his doorwings echoed his disappointment.   
  
Bad Ratchet, neglecting his pretty like that.   
  
“It only takes a spark,” Prowl pointed out.   
  
“Yeah, to ignite a fragging powder keg,” Ratchet muttered, throwing the reply over his shoulder.  
  
It did, at least, have the added effect of making him notice Prowl. He sat back up and groped behind him for Prowl’s nearest wrist, pulling Prowl forward. The tactician made a startled sound as he was tugged across Ratchet’s lap, his bumper and belly tucked over Ratchet’s thighs.   
  
Prowl squirmed, but only until Ratchet’s hand landed on his back, between his sensory panels, pinning him in place. Then Prowl went still and strutless, sinking over Ratchet’s lap like he belonged there, his arms pillowing beneath his head, his legs twisted at what had to be an awkward angle to hang over the edge of the couch so that his pedes brushed the floor.   
  
Ratchet’s other hand rested on the back of Prowl’s head, fingers stroking it gently, and that’s when Prowl’s engine kicked into gear, purring with content.   
  
Sometimes, Ironhide swore he didn’t understand those two.   
  
“Ya know, sometimes sparks can ignite other things, too, ya overprotective nanny bot,” Ironhide retorted, after what seemed an embarrassing amount of time. “Like, ya know, affection that leads to peace.”   
  
Ratchet vented and leaned back, his hands still gently stroking Prowl, who’d gone so limp his sensory panels flattened against his back like a blanket.   
  
He did, however, manage enough to stir and turn his head toward Ironhide, though his optics were hazy. “You had someone in mind?” His backstrut arched, aft bobbing a little, as Ratchet stroked along the length of his back.   
  
“Nope.” Ironhide slid his optics toward Ratchet with a sly grin. “But I’m bettin’ the Party Ambulance here does.”   
  
Ratchet went rigid, his fingers stalling on their path toward Prowl’s aft. “Ironhide!” he snapped, hissing a warning, as his faceplate burned pink.   
  
“I am aware of Ratchet’s history,” Prowl said even as he made another quiet, urgent noise, prompting Ratchet’s hand to continue. “To whom is he referring, Ratchet?”   
  
The medic sighed and growled, his hand stroking over Prowl’s aft and lingering there. “Starscream,” he said.   
  
Prowl’s sensory panels froze. His optics cycled.   
  
Ironhide sorely wished he had an energon cube to hide behind, if only to conceal his Sharkticon grin and the way his optics hungrily followed Ratchet’s fingers as they started to dip between Prowl’s thighs.   
  
“And it’s stupid,” Ratchet continued as he kept his hand between Prowl’s thighs, and judging by Prowl’s shiver and sudden kneading at the arm of the couch, his fingers were going to a very nice place. “It’s ridiculous. Of all the mechs--”  
  
“Actually, Ironhide may have a point,” Prowl said, his vocals shuddery, his faceplate starting to heat. “Starscream is many, many things, but at his core is a mech desperate to be loved.” The last word petered off into the softest of moans, his aft rocking toward Ratchet’s fingers as he hauled his knees and legs onto the couch.   
  
Ironhide nodded. “And here is Wheeljack, achin’ to love someone.”   
  
Ratchet shook his head. “You’re both mad.”   
  
“Probably so.” Ironhide shrugged dismissively. He knew that tone of Ratchet’s and what it meant. “But we aren’t wrong either.”   
  
Ratchet cycled a ventilation. “Fine. Then both of you will come up with a plan that’s not going to blow up in all of our faces,” he said. “But later. Apparently, I have something that needs attending, isn’t that right, love?” He looked down at Prowl, his expression that intriguing blend of diabolic affection that never ceased to amaze Ironhide.   
  
Prowl’s ventilations quickened. “Please,” he panted, knees digging into the couch cushions, his sensory panels quivering.   
  
Ironhide licked his lips.   
  
Ratchet withdrew his fingers, visibly damp with lubricant, and ignoring Prowl’s whine of displeasure. “Then get on the floor,” he said with a light swat to Prowl’s aft. “On your knees in front of me. But face our guest.”   
  
Ratchet looked up at Ironhide and smirked, enough that Ironhide almost felt he should be the one obeying, too.   
  
“Ironhide, if you’ll be so kind as to move that table,” Ratchet said as Prowl moved to obey, though slowly and with lubricant slicking his thighs. “I do believe my lovely here wants to give you a show.”   
  
Ironhide’s engine revved. He almost leapt to obey, sliding the cheap table aside so that there was nothing to obstruct his view of Prowl on his knees between Ratchet’s legs. Lubricant dripped from his open valve, his pressurized spike standing proud at the apex of his thighs.   
  
Ratchet leaned forward, one hand cupping Prowl’s jaw from behind. The hand, Ironhide noticed, still sticky from Prowl’s lubricants. Said sticky fingers were urged toward Prowl’s lips, and Prowl moaned as he sucked them into his mouth, optics going half-shuttered and dark with need.   
  
“Well,” Ironhide drawled as he dropped back into his chair and made himself comfortable. “If he’s offerin’, then I suppose it would be rude of me to decline.”   
  
Ratchet chuckled. “That’s right,” he said and dragged the fingers of his free hand along the top edge of Prowl’s nearest panel. “Go on then, love. Put those hands of yours to good use.”   
  
Prowl moaned around Ratchet’s fingers again, his hands falling to his array, sweeping up lubricant and pre-fluid alike as he started to self-service.   
  
Poor Wheeljack. He was gonna miss this.   
  
But if he ended up with a pretty Seeker to call his own, maybe he wouldn’t mind so much.   
  
Meanwhile, Ironhide intended to enjoy the show.


	6. The Importance of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak has a little chat with Ratchet, while misbehavior from Prowl puts Blue’s relationship with Jazz in a whole new light.

“It’s not fair,” Bluestreak whined and tried not to pout, though he must have failed if Ratchet’s amused look was any indication. “Your pretty is so obedient and mine’s...”   
  
“Currently back in your quarters chained up because he can’t behave?” Across from him, lounging like a king on his throne, Ratchet barked a laugh. “That’s your own fault, Blue. They only disobey if their owner isn’t firm enough.”   
  
Bluestreak’s lips pressed together before he ex-vented a burst past them. “Or maybe he’s just an ornery little brat.”   
  
Ratchet laughed again and leaned back, shifting his foot where it was braced against the table. “Well, that might be part of it.” A shiver visibly raced across Ratchet’s armor. “Mm. Bring him next time. Maybe I can teach him something. Ah!”   
  
Ratchet startled and his optics shifted toward the mech between his legs. His optics narrowed, fingers gripping Prowl’s chevron and giving it a light tug.   
  
“What did I say about your denta, love?” he asked, his tone loving, but something harsh behind it.   
  
Prowl’s sensory panels flicked, first one and then the other. He didn’t say anything, and from Bluestreak’s position behind him, he couldn’t see Prowl’s expression. Which was a pity, because he bet it was a gorgeous sight, coated as it had to be in Ratchet’s lubricant.   
  
He’d been hard at work for the better part of twenty minutes, lovingly licking and suckling on Ratchet’s valve, while his engine purred and Ratchet enjoyed. Honestly, Bluestreak was envious of Ratchet’s never-ending stamina, even if it had annoyed the pit out of him when he’d undergone Ratchet’s training.   
  
Prowl’s fingers twitched where they were tangled together, clasped at the base of his backstrut, a form of self-bondage that Ratchet often utilized.   
  
“Let the sub live or die by their own restraint,” he’d instructed with a devilish grin.   
  
Ratchet’s grip on Prowl’s chevron tightened and Bluestreak winced. Such a sensory laden part and Ratchet held it as though it were a piece of unnecessary kibble.   
  
“Well?” Ratchet prompted.   
  
“No denta,” Prowl finally bit out, and there was a hint of indignation to his words.   
  
Bluestreak was quick to cover his smirk behind his palm. That was the last time he’d praise Prowl’s behavior where Prowl could hear him. Perhaps Prowl had taken it as a challenge.   
  
“And yet what did I feel?” Ratchet asked, though there’s no way Prowl could have nipped him hard enough to hurt. Prowl might have been playing with disobedience, but he’d never be half as contrary as Jazz.   
  
Prowl’s sensory panels shivered. “I’m yours,” he said, by way of answer.   
  
Ratchet tilted his head, but then his chastising expression softened, as did his grip. “Of course you are, love,” he said, stroking his fingers over Prowl’s chevron. “You misunderstood. I meant to supervise and offer feedback, not take Jazz under my own hand.”   
  
Prowl made a low sound in his intake, his head dipping a little as did his sensory panels, flattening against his back in apology. “Forgive me, Ratchet. I presumed.”   
  
“Yes, you did.” Ratchet sighed softly and stroked his palm over Prowl’s head, behind the jut of his chevron. “And that is partially my error as I was not clear. I am offering instruction and nothing less, though I can retract the offer...”   
  
Prowl’s head dipped a bit more, until he was all but bowing before Ratchet. “No, sir. I...”   
  
Bluestreak’s optics widened. Prowl rarely dropped back into the deferential terms for Ratchet. The both of them rarely relied upon the standard monikers, preferring more affectionate designations.   
  
“We’ll discuss it later.” Ratchet’s hand slid back to Prowl’s chevron, fingers pinching the left-most crest and sliding up to the tip of it. “For now, there is the matter of you disobeying me, no matter what you may have presumed.”   
  
Prowl whimpered.   
  
Primus, but Ratchet was a master at this. Honestly, if Ratchet came back and rescinded his offer, Bluestreak would be fine with this. Just watching Ratchet and Prowl together was enough to learn him a thousand lessons.   
  
Ratchet’s optics lifted back to Bluestreak, optical ridge arching as if asking ‘do you see what I mean?’   
  
Bluestreak jerked his chin in a nod. Yeah, he was starting to see. Though, to be fair, Jazz had always been a misbehaving little sneak. A year or so in Bluestreak’s berth and under his thumb wasn’t going to change that.   
  
“On top of that, our guest is going to leave disappointed,” Ratchet continued, his tone full of disapproval now, even as he clucked his glossa and released of Prowl’s chevron.   
  
Ratchet fully straightened, planting his feet on the floor and rising to his full height, not at all ashamed of the lubricants dripping down his thighs, or his bared equipment.   
  
“I’m sorry, Bluestreak. It appears this one is in need of some re-training of his own,” Ratchet said, the tips of his fingers resting on the crown of Prowl’s head.   
  
Prowl whined deep in his intake, his hands tightening around each other. He leaned forward a bare fraction, and the quiet noise of a glossa lapping up dribbles of lubricant filled the space. Not that Ratchet seemed to notice.   
  
“Perhaps another time?” Ratchet suggested.   
  
Bluestreak pushed to his own feet and made a show of stretching as nonchalant as possible. He, after all, knew how to play this game. “For sure. Just let me know when you’re free and I’m free and let me know about that offer for instruction, too. Primus knows I could use some advice from the Master of Masters.”   
  
Ratchet barked a laugh. “Master of Masters, hmm? I might have to borrow that.” He shifted his weight, tilting his leg toward Prowl, and Prowl obeyed, moving to lick the inside of Ratchet’s other thigh.   
  
Bluestreak’s engine purred, lust drizzling throughout his internals. Thank Primus he’d left his own pretty back in his hab-suite. He looked forward to having someone to handle this charge for him.   
  
“It’s yours,” he said with a playful bow and wiggle of his sensory panels. He offered Ratchet a devilish salute. “Thanks for the invite.”  
  
“Anytime, Blue.”   
  
Ratchet, however, had already shifted his attention back to Prowl, and Bluestreak knew better than to address Prowl right now. He was fully focused – or supposed to be – on showing his guilt and apology to Ratchet. As it had been his fault the game was ended, the guest did not even need to acknowledge him.   
  
It was almost a shame. Bluestreak did so enjoy watching Ratchet punish Prowl. The medic was very, very creative. Devious, too. However, given the nature of what had startled Prowl right out of his assigned task, Bluestreak did not linger.   
  
He suspected the punishment here would be less physical and sensual, and more of the hardest thing for Prowl, sitting down and having a discussion of the spark. He and Ratchet had been together a long, long time, but Prowl still found it hard to open himself like that. He probably always would, which was one reason he thrived under Ratchet’s dominance.   
  
Ratchet’s rules, his expectations, that made it easy for Prowl. It gave him guidelines, structures, and when he behaved, performed well, it was a reflection of his own feelings and emotions. Prowl showed Ratchet how much he loved the medic, with every bowed head, bared intake, or bound limbs.   
  
Trust and love were one and the same, to him.   
  
In that, he and Jazz were a lot alike.   
  
Bluestreak paused outside of Ratchet’s door as the realization poured over him, fast enough to make his engine stutter noisily.   
  
Was that where he was going wrong? Had he not fully earned Jazz’s trust? Was that why Jazz misbehaved, acted out, even when it wasn’t part of the game? Was he still holding a part of himself back, wary of putting his spark into Bluestreak’s hands?   
  
Perhaps Bluestreak was going about this all wrong. He forced his feet back into motion, turning toward his tiny, private habsuite, where he’d left Jazz.   
  
He and Jazz had dove right into the games from the start, with a very eager Jazz all but hungry for it, begging for the sweet emptiness in his processor that came from handing over his control. But perhaps he hadn’t acquired full surrender yet, and his misbehavior was a way of telling Bluestreak that it wasn’t working.  
  
He should take a step back, erase the board, and start from the beginning. As if they had just met and were learning one another. Leave the toys and the punishments out of it, and work solely on building and strengthening trust.   
  
Bluestreak keyed his code into the lock and stepped into the room quickly, before the random passerby could look in and get a glimpse of Jazz. This section of the Ark was usually deserted but all it took was a moment of inattention for the gossip to spread like wildfire.   
  
Autobots loved to gossip.   
  
“Right where I left you,” Bluestreak murmured as the lights surged to sixty percent power, when he’d left them on a dim ten. Which was actually for Jazz’s comfort. He flourished best in the shadows. It was the bright lights which unnerved him.   
  
Currently, Jazz knelt on the floor, a small puddle beneath his knees where lubricant had seeped out from his closed panels. His wrists were cuffed behind his back – self-bondage did not work well with Jazz at this point, too disobedient. Though he could get himself free of the cuffs in a matter of moments. Bluestreak was well aware of this.   
  
Jazz’s frame quivered, little shudders running across his armor in bursts. The room was drenched with the scent of arousal, and Jazz’s field was blazing hot when it brushed over Bluestreak’s.   
  
As far as Bluestreak could tell, however, he hadn’t moved. And he hadn’t overloaded. Unless Jazz had some Special Ops trick that helped him disguise the physical evidence of an overload.   
  
Jazz looked up at Bluestreak’s words, his visor hazy. “Welcome back, Master,” he rasped and an urgent whine rose in his engine. “Early.”   
  
“Yes. Someone has been taking lessons in behavior from you apparently,” Bluestreak said as he moved to stand in front of Jazz, nudging one foot between Jazz’s knees, until he felt the damp ex-vents against his upper thighs. “Did you overload?”   
  
“No, sir.” Jazz shuddered again, his vents roaring.   
  
“Are you close?”   
  
That whine eeked out of Jazz’s intake this time. “Yes, sir.”   
  
“Look at me then.”   
  
Jazz tilted his head up and back and Bluestreak shivered as the weight of his lust-filled gaze fell on Bluestreak. Need clawed in Jazz’s field, volcanic and desperate. His bumper nudged against Bluestreak’s leg.   
  
“We will talk,” Bluestreak said as he reached down, the tips of his fingers brushing around the edges of Jazz’s visor. “I owe you an apology, and you owe me an honest answer.”   
  
Jazz’s shaking increased in earnest, and there it was, a treble of fear in his visor, and a small shiver of it in his field. Emotions, Bluestreak reflected, were a far worse fight than any punishment.   
  
“I...”   
  
“Shh.” Bluestreak stroked the jut of Jazz’s sensory horn between two fingers, and felt the crackle of charge with it. “Overload for me, pet. And then we can talk.”   
  
Jazz keened and his forehead tipped forward, pressed to Bluestreak’s thigh. He shuddered violently, engine roaring, as he overloaded then and there, more lubricant spilling down between his knees. The quiet vibrations of the toy lodged in his valve abruptly ceased – triggered, as it was meant to be, by the charge of Jazz’s overload. More proof that he’d not disobeyed Bluestreak for once.   
  
Bluestreak hummed soothing sounds, stroking Jazz through the echoes of his overload, until Jazz abruptly sagged against him. Only then did Bluestreak kneel to unlock the cuffs, remove the toys from Jazz’s array, and set to cleaning up his pretty. All while Jazz panted and radiated heat and leaned against him, as if stripped of all energy.   
  
His field clung to Bluestreak’s, humid and sticky, as if in dread of the conversation to come. Bluestreak murmured reassurance, his own processor babbling at him a mile a minute.   
  
He wanted so desperately for this to work, and communication, he knew, was key.   
  
So it was time both of them stopped letting their frames do all the talking, and opened their mouths and activated their vocalizers.


	7. When Opportunity Knocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak and Jazz discuss the invitation Ratchet offered them, while Jazz tries to be as enticing as possible.

The invitation was not unexpected.   
  
The offer to attend, with a guest and while in role; however, was.   
  
“And who might this guest be, hmm?” Jazz drawled as he draped himself over Bluestreak’s lap, trying to make an appealing picture of himself.   
  
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Gee, I wonder.” He rested his hand on Jazz’s belly, feeling his abdominal cables flex beneath his palm. “Well. You wanna go? Up for a little show and tell? Maybe even some playtime?”   
  
Jazz shivered and stretched his arms over his head. He arched his back alluringly. He knew exactly what he was doing, the minx.   
  
“I’m so tempted,” he purred as he folded his arms behind his head and wriggled on Bluestreak’s lap. “I know ya wanna show me off and I’ve heard things about their little shows.”   
  
Bluestreak blinked. “Wait. You’ve never been?”   
  
Jazz shook his head. “Prowl don’t like me,” he admitted with a lopsided grin. “Never could figure why.”   
  
Hmmm.   
  
He remembered Prowl’s reaction to Ratchet’s mere suggestion of Jazz. Bluestreak was starting to get an inkling, and he suspected it had little to do with any of the reasons Jazz had already hypothesized.   
  
It was less to do with liking, and more to do with possession.   
  
“Ahh,” Bluestreak said, and grinned down at his partner. “Doesn’t answer my question though. Why only tempted?”   
  
Jazz squirmed a bit more, until he managed to nudge Bluestreak’s hand from his belly to his groin. “Don’t mind puttin’ on a show or being watched or playing with whoever, and I wanna see ya show off, too.” He hummed as his panels slid aside, the tangy scent of his lubricant filling the air as his spike spiraled out to nudge Bluestreak’s fingers. “But I dunno if I can handle sharing.”   
  
Bluestreak curled his fingers around Jazz’s spike and gave it a long, lingering stroke. Hot metal throbbed in his grasp, pre-fluid beading up and trickling down to dampen his fist. Jazz sighed a moan and rolled into his fist, his frame shivering.   
  
“You don’t mind my sessions with Ratchet,” Bluestreak pointed out, even as his gaze roamed over Jazz’s frame appreciatively.   
  
Jazz’s hips rolled upward, pumping steadily into Bluestreak’s grasp as his plating visibly shivered. “That’s different.”   
  
“How?”   
  
Jazz moaned and his engine purred. “’Cause I’m yours.”   
  
_Oh_.   
  
Bluestreak had been right.   
  
He squeezed Jazz’s spike, giving him a harsher stroke, and grinned when Jazz whined and thrust into his grip, arms unfolding to to clutch at Bluestreak’s thighs beneath his aft.   
  
“It’s not about you then,” Bluestreak said. “It’s about _me_.”   
  
Jazz held his gaze, even as he pumped his hips into Bluestreak’s fist, his spike throbbing faster and faster. “Don’t want anyone gettin’ any ideas once they see how sexy you are. Especially not Prowl.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “I don’t think we need to worry about that, but fair enough. We don’t have to play. We can accept the invite without it. It’s an offer, not a requirement.”   
  
Though the idea of letting his pretty play with Ratchet’s pretty was very enticing. All that black and white tangled together made him shiver. Prowl was so eager to serve, too. And he had so much more training.   
  
The mental image of Prowl’s mouth wrapped around Jazz’s spike made Bluestreak’s engine rev.   
  
But alas.   
  
If Jazz was not comfortable, then that was all Bluestreak needed to know.   
  
“Okay,” Jazz murmured and wriggled under Bluestreak’s hand again as if in reminder that he was here and hungry.   
  
Bluestreak hummed appreciatively, thumbing the tip of Jazz’s spike almost offhand. Wouldn’t do to let Jazz know how enticing he was. “Though you and Prowl aren’t so different, you know?”   
  
Jazz’s visor flickered. “Huh?”   
  
Bluestreak cupped Jazz’s head with his free hand, tickling his fingers over the sensitive horns. “He doesn’t mind ‘me,’ but he didn’t like the idea of Ratchet interacting with another sub. You’re both possessive little pretties.”   
  
“Well, I guess that’s cause we know we got the best masters.” Jazz moaned and sucked on his bottom lip. His pedes pushed at the berth. “Ah, babe. Won’t ya frag me?”   
  
Bluestreak squeezed Jazz’s spike and tamped down on his own amusement. He leaned back, admiring the roll and writhe of his lover’s frame. Jazz could put on quite the show when he wanted something, and now was no exception. His spike throbbed needily, dripping pre-fluid, and Bluestreak could already feel lubricant leaking onto his thigh from where Jazz had bared his valve.   
  
“Now is that the proper way to ask me for something, pet?” Bluestreak purred.   
  
Jazz’s engine whined. He clutched at Bluestreak’s thigh and the berth, his abdominal cables flexing. “Ahhhh, please, sir. I’m achin’ and I need ya,” he pleaded. His head turned toward Bluestreak, lower lip wobbling and swollen from where he’d been nibbling on it.   
  
“Close, but not quite,” Bluestreak teased and tightened his grip on Jazz’s spike, squeezing out a steady dribble of pre-fluid. “I want you to overload like this. Soak my fingers. Give me a show, pet.”   
  
Jazz panted and arched his back, hips pumping into Bluestreak’s grip. His hands clawed at nothing, patting over Bluestreak’s thighs, the air, the berth beneath him. His head tilted back, lips parted in breathy moans.   
  
“Any… any time I want?” he asked, his thighs parting as though inviting Bluestreak to dip between them. The sweet scent of lubricant thickened.   
  
Bluestreak’s mouth watered.   
  
Bluestreak hummed approvingly. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s transfluid slit, teasing the tip into the dripping opening. “Yes.”   
  
Jazz’s back bowed. He keened and finally grabbed at the berth above his head, nearly knocking away Bluestreak’s hand from his horns in the process. His heels kicked at the berth as he panted, thrusting madly up into Bluestreak’s grip.   
  
His frame rattled on Bluestreak’s lap, spilling heat into the space between them. Lust spooled in his field, pushing at Bluestreak’s own, and Bluestreak shivered. He watched, enraptured, as Jazz came undone on his lap, plating flared wide, charge crawling out to dance over his armor.   
  
His spike pulsed. More lubricant soaked Bluestreak’s armor. His own panels juttered, threatening to reveal his equipment, and only practice kept him restrained.   
  
Bluestreak stroked Jazz’s helm. He tweaked Jazz’s sensory horn as he purred encouragingly, “Come on, pretty. Overload for me. Let me see your pleasure.”   
  
Jazz gasped, his visor flaring. He thrust up into Bluestreak’s grip and the berth creaked noisily. He moaned, long and low, tapering off into a whine, as he overloaded, transfluid spurting from his spike and splashing down on Bluestreak’s fingers.   
  
He made quite the picture, his visor flaring bright, his faceplate flush, his vents whirring and his armor gapped to reveal tantalizing bits of his substructure. He writhed on Bluestreak’s lap, panting orally, before he abruptly sank down, hips still pumping upward in little aborted motions to slide through Bluestreak’s sticky fingers.   
  
“Very nice,” Bluestreak murmured, and cupped Jazz’s head, even as he gentled his hold on Jazz’s spike.   
  
Jazz nuzzled into his palm, pressing a small kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Is good,” he said, ex-venting heat against Bluestreak’s substructure.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He fingered Jazz’s spike a little longer before letting the semi-pressurized length slip from his fingers. “You did, however, make a mess.”   
  
Jazz moaned softly. “Sorry, sir. I’ll clean it for ya.” He licked Bluestreak’s inner wrist, lip curving with mischief.   
  
“I know you will.” Bluestreak offered Jazz his hand, dripping transfluid on Jazz’s chin as a result.   
  
Jazz reached up and curled fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand the rest of the way, wrapping his lips around the first of Bluestreak’s digits. He moaned, field flushing with arousal, visor fluttering.   
  
Bluestreak’s own arousal simmered like a high grade still, but not so much he couldn’t endure it a while yet. He prided himself on his control, and besides, there was something enticing in denying himself the pleasure.   
  
Jazz lovingly cleaned each finger, one by one, before he switched to long laps of his glossa over Bluestreak’s palm, his engine purring as he focused on the task.   
  
“You never answered me,” Bluestreak said as he stroked his free hand around the curve of Jazz’s head. “Do you want to accept the invitation?”   
  
Jazz paused in his cleaning, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Yeah. I do.”   
  
“In character?”  
  
Jazz nuzzled Bluestreak’s palm, his visor a soft shade of blue. “I can wear my collar?”  
  
Bluestreak stroked the length of a sensory horn, drawing a shiver from his pretty. “And your leash, though it’ll have to wait until we get past the door or someone will stare and you know how much everyone around here likes to gossip.”   
  
“Yeah. I’m good at gettin’ those rumors started.” Jazz chuckled before his tone turned serious. “I wanna go, and mebbe if ya want, I’ll play wit Prowl.” He drew Bluestreak’s thumb into his mouth, giving the tip a light nip. “But you can’t.”   
  
“Fair enough.” Bluestreak slid his thumb free and dragged his fingers down over Jazz’s chin, then his intake, and up over the rise of his bumper. “I suspect Prowl will have the same caveat, which means Ratchet and I will have a lot of fun plotting what we’re going to do to the two of you.” His fingers continued southward, teasing Jazz’s abdominal cables, his pelvic span, and flirting over his softened spike.   
  
Jazz shivered and spread his thighs. “Wouldn’t mind watchin’ the two of ya kiss, though,” he said with a little urgent noise in his intake.   
  
“Me and Ratchet?”   
  
Jazz’s hips canted toward Bluestreak’s fingers, trying to guide them right where Bluestreak wanted to go, which was between his thighs to dip into the dewy wetness gathered on Jazz’s rim.   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Bluestreak laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He circled Jazz’s anterior node slowly, watching his lover’s face flush with heat and his fans slowly spin back up again. Only then did he ease a single finger into Jazz’s valve, purring at the hot clutch of eager calipers. “Until then...”   
  
“Yer gonna frag me, right?” Jazz asked, his thighs clamping down on Bluestreak’s hand as though trapping him in place. “Or am I gonna hafta beg again?”   
  
“I dunno. I kinda like the sound of you begging.” Bluestreak curled his fingers, stroking a bundle of nodes just behind the inner rim of Jazz’s valve.   
  
A low sound rumbled out of Jazz’s engine. “Then I’ll say whatever ya want if it means ya’ll spike me.”   
  
Bluestreak grinned and slid a second finger into his lover, thoroughly enjoying the way Jazz arched his back and whimpered. His valve rippled, more lubricant spilling out to soak Bluestreak’s fingers.   
  
“Impress me,” he purred.   
  
Jazz rocked down against his fingers, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Give me somethin’ hard.”   
  
“I intend to,” Bluestreak said with a laugh, one that stripped away the building tension of the moment, but in a good way.   
  
Jazz snickered. “Primus, yer so good ta me, Blue. Glad I snagged ya.”   
  
“Pretty sure I grabbed you, but if it makes you feel better to think that clumsy effort at wooing me worked, than feel free,” Bluestreak said. He stroked his fingers around the curve of Jazz’s face. “I don’t mind at all.”   
  
Jazz turned in toward his palm again, giving it a kiss. “So good ta me.”   
  
Bluestreak smiled and reward Jazz with a third finger, one that curled ever so slightly and rubbed along that sensor cluster that made Jazz writhe.   
  
He had to start planning. If Jazz was up for potential playtime with Ratchet’s pretty, well, Bluestreak wanted to give him a fun opportunity. He suspected Ratchet would be up for it as well.   
  
He couldn’t wait.


	8. Take Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironhide considers there’s no luckier mech, when Bluestreak invites him to watch as he and Jazz indulge in a very special kink.

Ironhide considered himself the luckiest Autobot around.   
  
Not only did he have the best group of friends and berthmates, but he had a longstanding invitation to watch Ratchet and Prowl anytime they were up for a show. That in itself was a gift. But now, Bluestreak and Jazz had started to play, too, and they had sent him an invitation that he was nearly giddy to accept.   
  
“I know you’re interested in fisting,” Bluestreak had said with a devilish grin. “And I also know Prowl doesn’t enjoy it so you’ll never get to see it from them. Lucky for you, Jazz is eager to put on a little show.”   
  
Ironhide had groaned, his spike surging behind his panel at the mere suggestion of a kink he’d been fascinated by for quite some time, but had been unable to see for himself. He didn’t have a steady enough partner to bring up such an extensive kink with, and Ratchet had already told him it was something they never indulged in.   
  
How Bluestreak had learned of Ironhide’s interest, he had no clue. He suspected Ratchet was to blame. He and Bluestreak were as thick as thieves sometimes. Devious. The both of them.   
  
“I’ll be there,” Ironhide had replied, his voice a touch hoarse, an urge to get back to his quarters as soon as possible rising up inside of him.   
  
“I know you will be,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. He rose up on his pedes and kissed Ironhide on the cheek, the brush of his lips a tease, a reminder of all the fun they used to have. “See you Thursday.”   
  
And then he’d left and Ironhide had indeed gone back to his room, hand striping his spike to the tune of two overloads that left his knees shaking and his vents gasping for cooler air. He’d collapsed backward onto his berth, thinking that his friends and their kinky ways would be the death of him.   
  
But oh, what a way to go.   
  
Ironhide arrived Thursday precisely on time, though if anyone asked, it wasn’t because anticipation had simmered in his lines all day. It was because he believed in punctuality. No more. No less.   
  
He buzzed the door and heard the click of it unlocking remotely; invitation extended. Ironhide invited himself inside, though quickly. If this was to be anything like Prowl and Ratchet, no doubt he didn’t want to give a random passerby a glimpse of the debauchery within.   
  
The door slid shut behind him as the scent of lubricant and arousal slammed into him. Oh, he’d been right. He’d been so very right.   
  
Ironhide’s spike surged behind his panel as he took in the sight waiting him.   
  
Jazz’s quarters were a single, and he’d dragged his berth to the middle of the room rather than shoving it up against a wall. He currently laid perpendicular across it, his upper half propped up by a wedge-shaped pillow. His legs were spread wide, his own hands locked around his thighs, keeping him displayed and open for Bluestreak.   
  
The wet, squelching noises of fingers and lubricant made Ironhide’s array buzz with fire. He watched as Bluestreak steadily worked fingers into Jazz’s valve, fluids running down Jazz’s aft and dripping to the floor, his rim swollen and his anterior node thick and bright.   
  
Jazz panted, his optics dim, head tilted back against the pillow. His hips made little canting rocks toward Bluestreak’s fingers. His valve rim fluttered as though struggling to restrain his overload.   
  
Primus, he was a sexy thing. How had Ironhide never gotten to berth him?   
  
Bluestreak withdrew four fingers with a squelch of lubricant and rubbed his thumb over Jazz’s main node in little circles. Jazz whimpered, his fingers trembling on his thighs. Only then did Bluestreak look over his shoulder to greet Ironhide.   
  
“You can come closer, you know,” he said with that cheeky tone Ironhide had come to love and loathe all at once. Mostly because it meant a very good time. “I won’t bite you for having a more personal look.”   
  
Ironhide chuckled and crossed the floor, glad for his own restraint that kept his already throbbing spike nice and contained. “Well, I didn’t want to upset your boundaries.”   
  
“Nnn. Don’t have any,” Jazz gasped out, his head lolling. His valve rim quivered as Bluestreak stroked it, lubricant making obscene noises.   
  
“Well, you’re half-right anyway,” Bluestreak said, his tone fond. He slipped two fingers into Jazz’s valve, and he did something that made Jazz’s backstrut arch. “Ready for the whole thing, pet? Now that your audience is here, I mean.”   
  
Jazz’s glossa swept over his lips. “I been ready, ya tease,” he said, and his thighs spread incrementally wider, his vents whooshing scorched air.   
  
Bluestreak clucked his glossa and gave a light smack to Jazz’s valve, making him jolt. “Don’t you sass me, pet.”   
  
Jazz’s visor flashed. If anything the punishment seemed to make him hotter. He gasped and rolled his hips, making a low moan in his intake.   
  
“He behaves so well,” Ironhide murmured.   
  
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Don’t remind me.” His free hand reached for the berth by Jazz’s hip, lifting a bottle of lubricant into view. “We’re working on it.”   
  
He tipped the bottle over his already damp fingers, splashing lubricant everywhere. Jazz watched with a bright visor, a hungry one. Ironhide had to admit that a similar look was probably on his own face.   
  
“I have faith in you,” Ironhide said, though he probably sounded distracted. He was too busy watching as Bluestreak plunged three dripping fingers into Jazz with ease. There was a loud, squelching noise.   
  
Jazz moaned. His ventilations hitched.   
  
Bluestreak removed his fingers, added a fourth and pushed them back into Jazz’s valve. Jazz whined, backstrut arching, feet kicking at the berth as his fingers trembled.   
  
“Please,” Jazz begged, restless against the berth. “Please, Blue. _Please_.”   
  
Ironhide groaned, his hands forming into fists. They were both going to kill him.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “I don’t know which of you I’m torturing more,” he said, but he withdrew his fingers and formed a cone with his hand. “Tell me if it hurts, pet.”   
  
“It won’t!” Jazz sounded desperate. His field was a wild and heavy pull of lust, dragging against Ironhide’s own.   
  
He licked his lips, gaze locked where the triangle of Bluestreak’s fingers started to ease into Jazz’s valve. Lubricant squelched and dribbled. Jazz sucked in a long and slow ventilation, his frame shuddering as Bluestreak’s hand eased into his valve, bit by bit, until all was swallowed but his wrist. There he lingered, turning his hand back and forth, rubbing along Jazz’s rim.   
  
Jazz moaned, visor flashing, head tilting back. “M-more,” he pleaded.   
  
Ironhide found himself leaning closer, and then quietly chuckled. Because he couldn’t very well blame Wheeljack for wanting a closer look now, could he? Not when he was near enough to touch Jazz now, and certainly near enough to feel the heat of Bluestreak’s ventilations.   
  
The stretch of Jazz’s valve around Bluestreak’s hand was intoxicating. And when Blue dumped more lube over his wrist and lower arms, only to ease his hand a little deeper, Jazz’s helpless whimpering dragged a soft sound out of Ironhide. His hands drew into fists as he denied his spike’s request to pressurize.   
  
Bluestreak’s free hand rubbed gently on Jazz’s groin, over his closed spike panel and occasionally brushing his anterior node. His other hand continued to move, each forward push incrementally urging his hand deeper, until his wrist vanished and his forearm glistened with lubricant.   
  
Jazz’s ventilations turned haggard. His hips moved in urgent rocks, his hands clenching on his thighs so hard, Ironhide swore his armor dented. He made low keening noises, ones Ironhide better called a mewl, and his abdominal armor bulged slightly as Bluestreak’s hand worked even deeper, only to pause and linger.   
  
Ironhide watched, enraptured, as Jazz’s abdominal armor seemed to shift.   
  
“What are ya doin’?” he asked and knew his voice was filled with static.   
  
Bluestreak smirked, though his own optics were bright and dazed with arousal. “It’s called fisting for a reason, ‘Hide.” His glossa swept over his lips. “And there’s nothing like grinding over a ceiling node with your knuckles.”   
  
Jazz seemed to agree, as he shuddered from head to foot, his heels drumming against his aft, the berth creaking beneath him.   
  
“Master, please,” he begged, and Ironhide had never heard him sound so desperate before. It did things to him, things that made his engine rev. “Can I overload?”   
  
Bluestreak purred at him. “Of course you can, pet.” His fingers swept over Jazz’s closed spike panel again, tracing the circumference of it before he drummed the tips over it. Jazz keened and arched his backstrut. “Give us a show.”   
  
Ironhide groaned and shoved the heel of his palm over his own panel, even as Jazz keened and all but convulsed. His valve rim visibly contracted around Bluestreak’s forearm, his belly armor bulging, as charge crackled out over his frame in jagged bursts.   
  
And then Bluestreak curled forward, latched his mouth around Jazz’s anterior node, and gave it a harsh, audible _suck_.   
  
Jazz’s entire body jolted as if he’d been struck, and he nearly kicked Bluestreak as one overload must have catapulted directly into a second. He shrieked, head tossing back, as he rode Bluestreak’s arm through the jagged pulses of his overload.   
  
Ironhide ground his denta until he tasted sparks, heel of his palm shoving over his own panel, scrubbing against the head of his spike doming the thin metal covering. His knees shook, and his own ventilating was equally uneven.   
  
Bluestreak leaned back, licking his lips with a smug grin, as Jazz collapsed into the berth, twitching, his fans roaring. He panted audibly, little whines rising from his engine as it clonked and sputtered, his valve rim twitching around Bluestreak’s arm.   
  
His slowly retracting arm at that.   
  
Ironhide watched, enraptured, as Bluestreak eased his arm, and then his wrist, and then his fingers free. Lubricant glistened on his armor, but far more appealing was the sight of Jazz’s valve, loose and open, generously seeping lubricant and nodes pulsing faintly. His rim twitched, and in the shadows of the interior, Ironhide swore he could see Jazz’s internal biolights flickering unevenly.   
  
“He’s so open,” Ironhide murmured. He swallowed down a moan and rubbed his panel. He slid a foot back, intending to gracefully dismiss himself before his spike rejected his overrides.   
  
“Want to touch him?”   
  
The question stopped his processing. “Huh?” Ironhide said, optics wide as he swung his attention to Bluestreak.   
  
Bluestreak grinned and reached for him with a hand still dripping lubricant. “Similar but not the same,” he said with a cheeky wink as his fingers curled around Ironhide’s nearest wrist and tugged his hand toward the heat and damp of Jazz’s array. “My pet likes for his viewers to be hands on.”   
  
On, he said, and then proceeded to nudge Ironhide’s hand toward Jazz’s valve, outstretched fingers brushing over the soaked rim first and foremost. Ironhide shuddered, his vents roaring, as he traced Jazz’s valve exterior.   
  
Jazz moaned, head lolling, but his hips tilting toward Ironhide’s touch. His thighs had drifted together a little in his post-overload haze, but a tap from Bluestreak’s fingers onto his, had him trembling as he returned to his original position. His valve fluttered beneath Ironhide’s fingers, producing a fresh wave of lubricant.   
  
Ironhide groaned, aloud this time. “Primus, I guess that’s my cue,” he said as he retrieved his fingers, though he swore the damp of Jazz’s lubricant stuck to them, hot and sticky. “That’s about as much teasin’ as I can take.”   
  
“Who said it’s a tease?” Bluestreak purred in an alluring tone he had to have learned from Ratchet. “Like I said, similar but not the same. In fact, if you really want, the other end could stand to be occupied right now.”   
  
Ironhide’s jaw might have visibly dropped. And his spike might have sprung free, entirely without his permission.   
  
“Are ya serious?” he demanded.   
  
Jazz moaned.   
  
Bluestreak moved between Jazz’s thighs, freeing his own spike and rubbing the rounded tip of it over Jazz’s stretched valve, his pet automatically tilting toward him. “You’re not obligated, but you’re more than welcome,” he said and drummed his fingers over Jazz’s spike panel. “Open your mouth, pet. You need to be considerate to our guest.”   
  
Ironhide’s spike throbbed. He squeezed the base to keep himself from overloading then and there, a drop of pre-fluid already dribbling at the tip.   
  
Jazz whined. There must have been some hidden command in the words because he let go of his hold of his thighs, and reached up and over his head, grabbing hold of the pillow propping him upright. He yanked it free and tossed it to the side, his upper half collapsing backward on the berth, putting his mouth at the perfect height to make use.   
  
Ironhide walked around the berth as if in a daze, his spike pulling him toward Jazz, who had indeed tipped his head back and opened his mouth. His visor was a bright blaze of arousal, even as his engine purred, his master continuing to tease his valve with little rubs and frots of his spike.   
  
“You’re sure?” Ironhide reminded himself to have some restraint. Even if his spike throbbed, and kept trying to urge itself toward Jazz’s mouth, the smaller mech’s glossa sweeping over his lips as if trying to entice Ironhide.   
  
It was working.   
  
“Positively,” Bluestreak said as Jazz’s ex-vents ghosted over the tip of Ironhide’s spike, hot and wet. The head of his spike breached Jazz’s valve just then, and he slid inside, nice and slow, the noisy burble of an overabundance of lubricant making Ironhide squeeze his spike harder.   
  
Like the Pit, he’d overload without even getting a taste of Jazz’s mouth.   
  
//We discussed all of this before we invited you,// Bluestreak added over a narrowband comm, though he wasn’t even looking at Ironhide, his gaze instead focused on himself, slowly sinking into Jazz. //I’m not offering anything Jazz hasn’t already begged me to offer. And if he changes his mind, I’ll let you know.//   
  
Jazz strained toward Ironhide as if he’d hacked their private conversation, though surely he knew better.   
  
“Please, sir,” he said, in a vocal tone that did squirmy things to Ironhide’s internals. He reached for Ironhide as well, though he stopped just short of touching him. “Let me suck ya off. I promise to do a good job.”   
  
Well then.   
  
Never let it be said that Ironhide was one to ignore an opportunity begging him.  
  
“Sure thing,” Ironhide said in what he hoped was a disinterested tone that gave no hint to how much he just wanted to throw himself at their offer. “Help yourself.”   
  
Jazz moaned, and his hands clasped around Ironhide’s hips. He pulled as he tilted his head further back, lips and glossa reaching. Ironhide shivered as Jazz’s mouth closed around the head of his spike and then drew him deeper, deeper, until he was surrounded by wet heat, and Jazz’s lips pressed to his spike housing.   
  
Sweet Primus on a pogostick.   
  
Ironhide heaved a stuttering ventilation, trying desperately to hold on to some measure of control. He toppled forward, catching his weight on the berth, hands to either side of Jazz’s frame, and his spike rolled against the back of Jazz’s intake. Jazz moaned around him, his field one of hunger. Ironhide didn’t even have to thrust; Jazz did all the work, swallowing around him, pushing and pulling on his hips, sucking on him as if he was the last, best treat in the universe.   
  
Ironhide panted, his audials catching wetter sounds, and he turned fuzzy vision back toward Bluestreak, who was stroking out of Jazz at a faster and faster pace. He’d grabbed Jazz by the thighs, just above faint imprints of Jazz’s own hand, and pushed them up toward Jazz’s chassis. Lucky Jazz was such a flexible mech, pinned between them as he was.   
  
Bluestreak’s ventilations quickened. “No overloading, pet,” he warned as he slammed into Jazz, the wet slap of metal on metal as intoxicating as the garbled sounds of pleasure Jazz made. Each forward thrust rocked Jazz against Ironhide, making the head of his spike roll all over the softness of Jazz’s intake.   
  
Jazz whimpered, his hips rocking into Bluestreak’s thrust. Lubricant trickled out of the corners of his mouth, his lips shiny with it. His glossa did amazing things to Ironhide’s spike, and he throbbed harder, fingers clenching in the berthcovers.   
  
Frag stamina. He wouldn’t last a handful more thrusts at this rate.   
  
Ironhide groaned. “Slag. Ain’t gonna last like this,” he admitted, and didn’t care if either of the two mechs smirked at him. They both oughta know how they hot they were. “Where can I…?”  
  
“In his mouth or on his face,” Bluestreak completed his thought before Ironhide could figure out a way to phrase his question. “Frankly, he looks good with either.”   
  
Primus.   
  
Ironhide growled a curse, the berthcovers rending with an audible noise. His head dropped, hips pumping forward, pushing deep as overload snatched a hold of him and sucked out his transfluid in several thick, ropey bursts. His vents roared, his field burst, and Jazz greedily gulped him down.   
  
Sheer force of effort had Ironhide pulling back at the last second, so he could watch the last precious spurt paint Jazz’s face. It landed on his cheek and slid down, pooling against the bottom edge of his visor. Jazz panted, lubricant leaking out of the corner of his mouth, his fingers squeezing Ironhide’s hips. His glossa swept over his lips.   
  
“Nice,” Bluestreak said approvingly as he slammed into Jazz, rocking him harder and harder across the berth.   
  
Jazz made a lovely whining noise, backstrut arching. His field reached out, tugging. Bluestreak looked down at him with a mixture of affection and lust, before he abruptly pulled out of Jazz and started fisting his spike furiously. It only took a few pumps before he overloaded, decorating Jazz’s array with his transfluid.   
  
Jazz whimpered. He released Ironhide’s hips – and Ironhide tried not to regret their loss. His hands crept down toward his array, but hovered there, as if waiting for permission. He squirmed, thighs still caught in Bluestreak’s grip, Ironhide’s transfluid still a wet smear on his cheek.   
  
“Master, can I--”  
  
“If you give me your spike,” Bluestreak said, cutting off Jazz’s plea. He thumbed Jazz’s spike panel in little circles.   
  
It instantly sprang open, Jazz’s spike jutting into the air, fiercely rigid. Bluestreak’s fingers wrapped around his spike, tightening into a squeeze, and Jazz keened. His frame forming a parabolic curve, his hands clawing at the air.   
  
“Master!” Jazz’s head tossed back, his visor dim and unfocused.   
  
Ironhide tried to remember to ventilate. He still held his own spike, the half-pressurized length twitching madly. He felt captured by them, by Jazz’s desperation and Bluestreak’s half-smug, half-driven expression.   
  
Bluestreak stroked Jazz with fast, squeezing pulls, dribbles of pre-fluid staining his fingers. “You know what I want, pet,” he said, optics bright and hungry as he looked at Jazz. “Overload for me.”   
  
Jazz keened. His entire frame trembled as his head tossed back and charge crackled out over his armor. His hands slammed to the berth, fingers snarling in the cover and twisting about the fabric. Desperate noises rattled out of his intake.   
  
Ironhide growled a moan.   
  
And Bluestreak, face set with determination, dropped Jazz’s other leg and plunged four fingers all at once into Jazz’s soaking valve, wrist twisted just right to grind against a node cluster set against Jazz’s rim interior.   
  
Jazz howled and thrashed. He overloaded, spike spurting transfluid up until it spattered down on Bluestreak’s fingers, onto his pelvic armor, his belly, and his chestplate.   
  
Ironhide groaned, long and low, as his spike repressurized quickly, throbbing in his loose grip. He didn’t act on it, however. He only allowed himself a few shallow strokes.   
  
He would wait for an offer. He wouldn’t presume.   
  
“Good boy,” Bluestreak was murmuring as he fondled Jazz’s spike, massaging him through the last tremors of overload.   
  
He withdrew his lubricant slick fingers from Jazz’s valve, and Ironhide’s mouth watered. The whole room smelled of lust and arousal and lubricant, and it filled Ironhide’s vents and chemoreceptors until he felt dizzy with it.   
  
“T-thank you, s-sir,” Jazz slurred, his head lolling on the edge of the berth. Little shivers made his armor twitch, small bursts of static leapt out from his substructure.   
  
Bluestreak’s glossa swept over his lips. He finally loosed his hold of Jazz’s spike, his fingers switching to gently pet over Jazz’s entire array, until they were sticky with mingled lubricant and transfluid.   
  
“Well?” Bluestreak asked, his tone oddly conversational. “Did you enjoy the show?” His askance look at Ironhide was just shy of smug.   
  
Ironhide chuffed and squeezed his spike. “I think the transfluid on his face tells ya that I did,” he drawled. “And I thank ya for lettin’ me participate.”   
  
For once, his processor helpfully added though Ironhide tucked the thought away. It seemed Bluestreak and Jazz were more willing to include active participation. No way was Ironhide going to potentially jeopardize that for the future.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He fondled Jazz’s anterior node, and Jazz squeaked, shifting about on the berth, his engine kicking out of it’s nearly-soundless idle to a rolling purr. “And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you fist him yourself next time.” He gave Ironhide a sly look.   
  
Ironhide groaned. He squeezed his spike to stop it from jerking about, spilling pre-fluid everywhere. Imagination supplied for him the very idea, and it gave him the good surges. He was never going to depressurize at this rate.   
  
“Evil,” he said. “The both of ya.”   
  
“Yes, he is,” Jazz said with an exhausted curve of his mouth. “Love ‘im though.”   
  
And sweet, too. They really were. Especially when Bluestreak gave Jazz a look both sappy and indulgent.   
  
Ironhide would forever be proud of himself for helping these two get their heads out of their afts and realize where they could find exactly who they were looking for.   
  
For now, however, he was still standing here holding his own spike, Jazz was covered in all kinds of fluids, and maybe they oughta do something about all of that.   
  
“The feeling’s mutual,” Bluestreak murmured with a hint of color in his cheeks before his gaze slanted to Ironhide, that edge of control causing it to gleam all over again. “And it looks as though our guest is in need of some assistance, pet.”   
  
Jazz tilted his head to the side, his visor seeking out Ironhide, whereupon it brightened. “Want I should take care of that, Master?” he asked, licking his lips, a note of glee entering his tone.   
  
Bluestreak purred. “Mmm. Aren’t you a generous little pet?” The heel of his palm scrubbed over Jazz’s array, grinding down on his anterior node. “Well, I suppose if the old mech still has the energy...”   
  
Ironhide huffed at both of them. “Don’t you start with me, brat,” he growled playfully as Bluestreak laughed, his field rippling out with genuine joy.   
  
Ironhide’s spark threatened to stutter. Jazz and Bluestreak were good for each other for that alone: Bluestreak’s happiness and Jazz’s ease.   
  
Hands tickled over Ironhide’s hips. He felt a tug and shifted his gaze to Jazz, unsurprised to find the audacious mech unashamedly trying to pull Ironhide’s spike back toward his open mouth.   
  
Ironhide groaned and went wherever Jazz tugged him.   
  
He truly was the luckiest mech in the Ark, wasn’t he?   
  


****


	9. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all fun and games, until the game gets boring, and then the fun can really begin. Monopoly has never been so saucy. Featuring Ratchet/Prowl and Ironhide/Bluestreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna point out that these aren't being written in any kind of chronological order since I'm just writing the ideas as they come and I consider this fic something purely self-indulgent. So this particular bit takes place before Bluestreak and Jazz officially get together. :)

They quickly learned that playing cards with Prowl was not fun. It wasn’t that he tried to cheat, it was that he did the math in his head before he consciously made the decision to do so, and then the answers were there, right in front of him, impossible to resist.   
  
Card games and anything like them were quickly handed over to others to enjoy. Smokescreen was particularly fond of Phase 10. It made for a rousing betting game apparently.   
  
Which left board games. Things that didn’t rely on math, but absolute luck and nothing less. Prowl was less good at lucky games. Which meant he didn’t win one-hundred percent of the time.   
  
Tonight’s choice was Monopoly – scaled up for Cybertronians and a gift from their human companions, who had been quite proud to present the game to the Autobots as a whole. Hoist and Grapple were quick to duplicate the efforts once the squabbling over whose turn it was began, and now there were enough sets to share.   
  
(They also quickly learned that Scrabble was not a fun game to play with Prowl either. While none of them were idiots, Prowl’s ability to absorb and regurgitate ridiculously complicated words was, to be frank, unfair. Again, he didn’t cheat, and they never had to quibble over whether that ridiculous word made of all consonants was actually a word, – because it always was. It was simply Prowl’s way.)  
  
Monopoly was an easy game that required little to no concentration. Which was a good thing, because Bluestreak couldn’t focus on it to save his spark. He was vaguely aware that he had all of the horses – altmodes to be more specific. And he knew Ironhide’s side of the board was a treacherous place to be.   
  
But most of his attention was on Prowl. Stolen glances and outright staring because Prowl was putting on a show, subtle as it might be, and Bluestreak’s libido had stood up to take notice.   
  
Ratchet leaned back, smirking, seemingly heedless of the suffering of his mate. But Bluestreak knew that Ratchet was paying twice as much attention as anyone else. He caught every ventilation stutter, hitched breath, plate tremble, and barely audible moan.   
  
Ratchet was a maestro.   
  
Bluestreak admired him greatly.   
  
“Prowl,” Ratchet said as he scooped up the dice and gave them a roll, “Drink your energon.”   
  
“Yes, Ratchet.” Prowl’s hand visibly trembled as he reached for the weak engex, not enough to overcharge, but just enough to pool in his tanks, warm and fizzy.   
  
Prowl sipped, intake bobbing. A tremor raced across his frame. He squirmed in his seat, and if one listened closely, they could hear the telltale hum and whirr of vibrators working their magic.   
  
Prowl’s cooling fans whirred quietly. Heat wafted from his frame, and his field was drenched in lust. He’d long foregone containing it, and with every beat of it, Bluestreak’s own internals tightened and tightened.   
  
“Seven!” Ratchet declared and the click-click-click of him moving his miniature wrench was barely audible over Prowl’s fans. “Well, frag it. Why do I always end up in the brig?”  
  
“Because you’re a nuisance and a menace?” Ironhide teased with a rumbling laugh. He snatched the dice from Ratchet, but his gaze kept slanting toward Prowl. “Keeping you in the brig is the only way to keep ya outta trouble.”   
  
Ratchet snorted. “You’re such a charmer, Ironhide.” He planted his elbow on the table, propping his chin on his hand. “Are you going to roll anytime soon?”   
  
“I’m getting to it. Hold yer horses.” The dice clattered across the table.   
  
Bluestreak ignored them. He was too busy watching Prowl as he took another sip of the engex before setting it down with uneasy fingers. Prowl’s intake worked, his doorwings shivering. He fidgeted in his chair, his cheeks flushed. He shuffled the cards indicating the property he’d purchased. He nibbled on his bottom lip. His gaze wandered to Ratchet, bright and yearning. A shiver ran across his armor.   
  
Bluestreak startled as something nudged against his arm.  
  
“Here kid, your turn,” Ironhide said, smirking as he handed over the dice.   
  
“Oh, really?” Bluestreak made himself peer at the board, but Ironhide’s little matrix replica was nowhere near Bluestreak’s properties. “You’re always so lucky, ‘Hide. How do you manage to avoid every owned property every time?”   
  
Ironhide laughed and wriggled his fingers. “I’ve got charmed hands.”   
  
Ratchet snorted.   
  
Prowl moaned.   
  
Bluestreak’s doorwings went high and taut, arousal spinning tight in his belly. He and Ironhide both snapped their attention to Prowl, who was listing in his seat, lips parted, optics a little glazed. He had his hands braced on the table, and his headlights were faintly flickering.   
  
Ratchet, the devil, grinned and leaned in close to his mate. “Everything all right, love?” he all but cooed, hand easing over to slide down Prowl’s arm and tickle over his wrist.   
  
Prowl cycled his optics and drew in a long, shuddery ventilation. “I’m… well,” he managed, after a noticeable pause, and fidgeted in his chair once more.   
  
“You’re sure?” Ratchet squeezed Prowl’s hand and then leaned back, his hand disappearing below the table, presumably to rest on Prowl’s thigh.   
  
Prowl visibly swallowed. “Yes, Ratchet.” His glossa swept over his lips and his armor juttered, lifting away from his substructure. He leaned in closer to Ratchet, hands still flat on the table.   
  
“So long as you’re sure,” Ratchet purred and shifted his attention to Bluestreak. “Well, you gonna roll or not?”   
  
As if he could concentrate on the game right now.   
  
Next to Bluestreak, Ironhide snickered. “You a little distracted, Baby Blue?”   
  
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “It’s not like I’m the only one.” But he rolled a three and moved his miniature tank – not the sniper gun this time, hah! – to the free space. “And my good luck prevails!”   
  
Utter glee filled him as he scooped up the central pot and added it to his funds. Ironhide groaned. Ratchet snickered.   
  
“That’s the only luck you ever have, Blue. You always land there, right after I’ve paid taxes three times over,” Ratchet said, one hand still hidden beneath the table.   
  
Prowl made a muffled noise. His fingers curled against the tabletop.   
  
“I am never goin’ ta win,” Ironhide groaned.   
  
Bluestreak grinned. “There are different kinds of winning,” he said with a smirk and a long, slow pan down Ironhide’s frame. Then he turned his attention to Prowl, holding out the dice. “Your turn.”   
  
Prowl looked at him, shaky, his optics bright and burning. “T-thank you, Bluestreak,” he said, and accepted the dice. He licked his lips, and he rolled.   
  
Two. Doubles. Click-click went the tiny datapad across the board, wherein Prowl landed upon one of his own properties. Ratchet scooped up the dice with his free hand and dropped them into Prowl’s palm with a wink.   
  
“Roll again, love,” he said. “And drink your energon.”   
  
Prowl’s intake visibly bobbed. “Yes, Ratchet,” he said, vocals husky, another ripple dancing over his armor, his doorwings wriggling.   
  
He rolled again, sliding into Ironhide’s danger zone, and forked over rent to the grinning weapon’s master. He drank his energon, and squirmed in his chair, a hot and heavy ex-vent making his optics glaze over.   
  
Primus.   
  
Bluestreak’s internals wound tighter and tighter. “So,” he said, and had to reboot his vocalizer because it spat static at him. “So, uh, what kind of accessories do you have today, Prowl?”   
  
Prowl’s optics lifted toward him, a little focused. “A-accessories?”   
  
Ratchet laughed and leaned back, the twitch of his shoulder suggesting his hand was doing something untoward to Prowl beneath the table. Bluestreak wished he could see, though Prowl’s reactions were fuel for the imagination.   
  
“How did I dress you up today, love?” Ratchet clarified with a wink. He did something and a low moan escaped Prowl, his chin drifting downward. “Go on. Tell our guests what gifts I gave you.”   
  
Pink stained Prowl’s cheeks. He visibly squirmed. His gaze slanted toward Ratchet, but Ratchet only nodded and waved for him to continue.   
  
The order was given.   
  
Bluestreak watched, enraptured.   
  
Prowl cycled a ventilation and affected the most no-nonsense tone Bluestreak had ever heard. “There is a plug in my port,” he said, voice unwavering. “And a false spike in my valve. There is also a plug in my spike housing, which vibrates on command.”   
  
Stuffed full then. Primus.   
  
Bluestreak licked his lips. “Your spike housing,” he repeated, and tried to imagine it, his own hips squirming at the thought.   
  
Prowl nodded. “Yes. The sensation is quite pleasant.”   
  
Ratchet snorted. “Pleasant,” he echoed and his smirk widened to a ridiculous degree. “Prowl, you are adorable. Please don’t ever change.” He leaned over and plucked the dice from Prowl’s hand. “My turn!”   
  
He rolled with an almost absurd glee, humming a little subvocally, one of the humans’ popular songs that Jazz liked to blast at full volume as he bebopped down the corridors.  
  
“No doubles,” Ratchet observed with a theatrical sigh. “Drat. Guess I’m stuck in the brig still.” He leaned in close to Prowl, lips brushing over his partner’s shoulder. “Unless I can get out on good behavior?”   
  
Prowl visibly shivered, his field going flush with heat. His doorwings shivered as he shuffled his cards again, an act that betrayed his aroused agitation.   
  
Ironhide snorted. “Frag that. You stay where you belong, medic.”   
  
Ratchet laughed and nuzzled Prowl’s shoulder again. “You’re such a stickler for the rules, Ironhide,” he said, but his gaze was on Prowl alone, something sharp and devilish in his gaze.   
  
Whatever he did beneath the table, that Bluestreak couldn’t see, must have been good, because Prowl jerked. His ventilations caught, and his armor visibly ruffled. The property cards fluttered to the table as he abruptly gripped the edge. A low whine built in Prowl’s throat, audible to them all. He looked at Ratchet, casting him a glance full of longing.   
  
“Ratchet,” he said, drawing out the syllables, a yearning in his tone.   
  
A smile slowly stretching his lips, Ratchet bent his full attention upon his trembling mate. “Yes, love?” Their faces were inches apart as Ratchet looked up at him.   
  
Prowl’s intake bobbed. His wings trembled. “Please.”   
  
“All you had to do was ask,” Ratchet purred and he crooked a finger from his free hand at Prowl. “Come here, love. Allow me to help you with that.”   
  
The chair groaned as it was shoved backward. Prowl all but lurched out of it, and tumbled into Ratchet’s embrace, for a moment allowing them a glimpse of the lubricant glistening on his thighs, despite his closed panels. Prowl made as if to sit in Ratchet’s lap, but Ratchet guided him otherwise, until he straddled one of Ratchet’s thighs, his own clamped tightly about it.   
  
Prowl shivered, his hands pawing at mid-air before Ratchet took them and placed them on Prowl’s thighs. He curled an arm around Prowl’s waist, tugged him closer, and left it there, keeping Prowl close.   
  
“There,” Ratchet said, as if he’d accomplished some great task. “Now, Ironhide, isn’t it your turn?”   
  
“Uh...” Ironhide’s gaze was locked on Prowl’s squirming frame and shivering doorwings.   
  
Bluestreak couldn’t blame him. Prowl made quite the fetching picture, trapped on the edge as he had to be. All Bluestreak could see was his back, his doorwings, the curve of his aft, and the subtle shifting of his hips, as he rocked himself on Ratchet’s thighs.   
  
“What’s a matter?” Ratchet smirked. “Tactician got your tongue?”   
  
Ironhide grunted at him, but made no attempt to hide how avidly he watched Prowl. “You know damn well yer puttin’ on a show, Ratch. What else am I supposed to do but watch?”   
  
“Actually, to be fair, Prowl’s the one doing all the hard work,” Bluestreak pointed out, as Prowl’s rocking motions increased in urgency, and the wet slide of metal on metal became more audible.   
  
Prowl’s hands lifted again, hanging in the air, as though he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do with them. Ratchet’s free hand tapped them, and Prowl lowered them again, resting on his knees.   
  
“I could use a little recognition, too,” Ratchet said as Ironhide finally snatched the dice and hastily rolled them, sloppy as he moved his piece onto one of his own properties, narrowly avoiding a Chance card. “This is all my plotting, after all.”   
  
Ironhide tumbled the dice into Bluestreak’s hands. “Give me a reason to bend Blue here over the table, and I’ll applaud for you all ya want.”   
  
“Hey! Who says I’m the one who’s gonna be bent over?” Bluestreak retorted, though his engine gave a little rev at the thought. It wouldn’t happen, at least not here in Ratchet and Prowl’s quarters. But later maybe?   
  
Yes, he wouldn’t mind at all if Ironhide bent him over the nearest flat surface and fragged him silly. Ironhide’s big, strong hands on his hips, holding him down, pounding into him, fragging him nice and deep, grinding on his ceiling node…   
  
Bluestreak shivered. No, he wouldn’t mind at all. He just resented the implication, no matter how slight, that it was what he wanted by default.   
  
“Because I said so,” Ironhide said.   
  
Bluestreak rolled his optics and rolled the dice, too, letting them clatter across the board. He passed over Go, collected his creds, and settled in for a nice wait on the Crystal Gardens, hoping a very blissed out Prowl wouldn’t notice that Bluestreak was occupying his property.   
  
He didn’t. All Prowl did was shudder, hips moving more urgently, the rasp-slide of metal on metal barely audible over their conversation. But Bluestreak could lean a little to his left, look under the table, and see the lubricant glistening on Ratchet’s thigh. Prowl’s fingers kneaded at his own knees, his engine revving in rolling growls. Ratchet kept a hand on Prowl’s backstrut, just below his doorwing mounts, and seemed to be ignoring Prowl’s current state for all the attention he paid to it.   
  
Restraint of duryllium, that one had.   
  
“It’s okay, Bluestreak,” Ratchet said graciously and with a wink at Ironhide. “We’ll figure out how to get old Ironhide here on his knees soon enough.”   
  
“Pah, I ain’t one of yer toys.” Ironhide gave Bluestreak a calculating look. “Though mebbe we do need ta find ya one of yer own.”   
  
Bluestreak waved dismissively. “Isn’t it Prowl’s turn?” he asked, desperate to change the subject. The last thing he needed was to ignite a gleam of matchmaking in Ironhide.   
  
Ratchet snickered. “Well, love, it is your turn.” He scooped up the dice and offered them to Prowl. “Don’t you want to roll?”   
  
Doorwings shivered. A low whine rose in Prowl’s intake. “I… I forfeit,” he said, vocals ripe with static.   
  
It was so much easier to win against Prowl when Ratchet was there to bend the luck in their favor.   
  
“Very well,” Ratchet said. “Though I suppose that means all of your properties are now mine. Being as you are, too.”   
  
Prowl groaned and his head dipped forward, his vents coming in a sharp burst.   
  
“That is not fair,” Ironhide grunted.   
  
“We’re getting a free show out of it. Hush,” Bluestreak retorted and ducked the teasing swat Ironhide sent his way, though he left his doorwings in range on purpose, as Ironhide grabbed the edge of one and dragged his fingers along the length.   
  
Heat and charge licked up Bluestreak’s backstrut. He swallowed down a moan. Maybe he really would get Ironhide to bend him over a table after this…   
  
Ratchet grinned. “Nothing in life is fair,” he said as he rolled the dice and watched them clatter across the gameboard.   
  
Doubles! At last he was free from the brig, only to land on the unclaimed Tagan Heights.   
  
Prowl, meanwhile, trembled harder and his field flashed through the room, carrying with it the heat of need. Bluestreak shivered again, and inspiration struck.   
  
“Ratchet?”   
  
“Yes?” the medic asked, oh so innocent as he contemplated his game piece as though it held the secret to chronic rust.   
  
Bluestreak licked his lips. “Any chance we might see your pretty’s accessories tonight?”   
  
Ratchet nodded to himself. “No, I don’t think I’ll buy Tagan Heights this time around,” he said, before he looked up at Bluestreak and grinned. “And of course! Why, all you had to do was ask, Baby Blue.”   
  
He groaned. “I hate that nickname, you know.”   
  
“No, ya don’t.” Ironhide laughed and nudged Bluestreak with his shoulder. “Ya love how much it confuses mechs cause they expect one thing and experience an entirely different thing.”   
  
Well, Ironhide had him there.   
  
Meanwhile, Ratchet had taken Prowl’s chin in hand, tugging Prowl’s face up toward his, a soft moan leaving Prowl’s lips. His optics were dim, this much Bluestreak could see, and there was something unfocused in his expression.   
  
“Well, love, up for a little show and tell?” Ratchet asked, his tone dark and sultry as he stroked his lover’s face.   
  
Prowl leaned in to the caress, another moan slipping free. “Yes, Ratchet,” he said, vocals shaky, his doorwings shivering and drooping, though not with discomfort. It seemed he just didn’t have the strength to keep them up in their usual high and severe configuration.   
  
“Such a lovely mate you are,” Ratchet cooed and leaned in, brushing his lips over Prowl’s in the softest of kisses, and brief at that. When he leaned back, Prowl followed after him, a whimper of disappointment in his wake.   
  
Bluestreak almost echoed him. There was something wholly intoxicating about the sight of Prowl like this, open and wanting, uninhibited, his entire focus on the pleasure Ratchet offered him, rather then the dregs and vagaries of war.   
  
“Up you get, love,” Ratchet added with a pat to Prowl’s aft before he eyed the table intently. “Bluestreak. Ironhide. Mind clearing us a spot on the table?”   
  
They sprang into action, and Bluestreak giggled, because the rate at which they swept the game’s pieces into the board was utterly ridiculous and made quite the mess. One that would make Prowl frown and twitch over later. Who won? No one won. No one ever won. It was impossible to play a game of Monopoly and actually have a winner.   
  
Ratchet chuckled. “Much appreciated,” he said, he and Prowl both on their feet now, though Ratchet guided Prowl backward toward the table, pushing him onto it with a little nudge.   
  
Prowl hefted his aft on the edge and lay back, flicking his doorwings to lay flat beneath him. His knees still hung over the edge, and they slid apart with a nudge from Ratchet, who dropped back into his chair and scooted between them, now at the perfect height to nuzzle Prowl’s panels with a cheek.   
  
“Mm, my favorite meal,” Ratchet purred as he dragged his fingertips over each of Prowl’s panels – spike, valve, and port – making Prowl shiver and his hands curl into fists. His hands smoothed down Prowl’s thighs and curled around his knees, pushing them further open.   
  
Bluestreak eased around the table, if only to get a better look, and didn’t fail to notice Ironhide mimicking him, only on the other side.   
  
“Ratchet,” Prowl moaned, his fingers scraping at the table, but other than that, he didn’t try to touch himself, though his hips surged toward Ratchet’s fingers.   
  
Ratchet chuckled. “Yes, I know, love.” He looked up at Bluestreak, his fingers circling Prowl’s spike panel. “Open for me.”   
  
Prowl’s panel spiraled open so fast, Bluestreak worried Ratchet’s fingers lost a few paint layers. And rather than see the head of Prowl’s spike, Bluestreak spotted the blunt end of some kind of interfacing toy, in a very bright blue, and glittery to boot. It was vibrating, that much Bluestreak could tell, and fluid seeped out from around it – lubricant or pre-transfluid, Bluestreak wasn’t sure.   
  
Ironhide made a strangled sound, and Bluestreak didn’t know if it was awe or trepidation, as if he couldn’t fathom one such plug himself. But Bluestreak certainly could. His own spike throbbed at the thought, of both experiencing it for himself, and playing with his own pretty in such a way. Should he ever find one, at any rate.   
  
Ratchet lifted a single finger and pressed it to the visible end of the blue object. He exerted a light pressure, and Prowl moaned, his backstrut arching off the table, his hips squirming. Lubricant seeped around it in an audible squelch.   
  
“This,” Ratchet said, conversationally, “is the spike housing plug. It’s been custom-made for Prowl, to be half the length of his spike and the same diameter when pressurized.” He looked at Bluestreak, his tone taking on one of teaching. “All spike plugs should be custom-made unless your pretty is a masochist who doesn’t mind a painful fit.”   
  
Bluestreak swallowed thickly. “Noted,” he said, ventilations shallow and uneven.   
  
“Primus, Ratch. Please tell me yer not gonna drag this out with lessons,” Ironhide groaned.   
  
Ratchet chuckled and nudged the spike plug again, making Prowl twitch, his hands creaking as they pulled into fists. “Not entirely, Ironhide.” The flat of his thumb pressed against the spikeplug, and he moved it in tiny circles.   
  
Prowl’s pedes made shallow kicks, his head tossing back, optics tightly shuttered. A whine eeked out of his intake, bottom lip tucked between his denta, as a burst of hot venting filled the room.   
  
Bluestreak licked his lips, arousal building to a dull, heavy throb in his array. He squirmed where he stood, shoving his hands behind his back to keep from touching.   
  
Ratchet circled the spike plug one more time before he lifted his thumb, and the plug bobbed upward just enough he could grasp the end of it. As he pulled it free, pre-fluid trickled in its wake, and the head of Prowl’s spike surged into view. Prowl groaned, low and deep, his spike pressurizing so quickly it had to be painful.   
  
He had a nice spike, Bluestreak observed, trying to focus on anything but the need pulsing in his field. Full and thick, glistening with pre-fluid, Prowl’s spike was a gradient of black to grey to white, and thin stripes of red came to a star-like point around the transfluid slit. Said opening was currently dribbling with fluid.   
  
Ratchet set the plug aside with one hand, as he drummed the fingers of his other hand over Prowl’s valve closed panel. “Open.”  
  
Obedience was immediate. Prowl trembled as his cover spiraled open, and lubricant spilled out, filling the room with the scent of his arousal. His anterior and posterior nodes were both plump and bright. In the shadows of his swollen valve lips was another object, much larger than the spike cap, with a small knob on the end as if to make it easier for Ratchet to remove it. This one was a bright yellow.   
  
“This one needs no explanation,” Ratchet said with a grin before he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s upper sensory cluster. He flicked out his glossa over it, and Prowl whined, knees pushing further apart until they could go no further. His hips rolled up, toward Ratchet’s mouth, only for Ratchet to withdraw again, his lips shiny with Prowl’s lubricant.   
  
Ratchet grasped the end of the toy and began to pull out slowly, achingly slowly, and all of Prowl went tense as he did so. A low sound rose in Prowl’s chassis, like a keen, and he abruptly hugged himself as he squirmed.   
  
The toy began to emerge, still bright yellow, and Bluestreak’s ventilations caught as he spotted the numerous ridges embedded into its surface. At the rate Ratchet was going, each one had to be catching Prowl’s internal nodes, one by one, and making them sing.   
  
Ironhide swore subvocally, his field spilling into the room with lust, making Bluestreak’s sensory panels and substructure tingle. When Bluestreak looked up at him, his optics were burning with it, and Bluestreak shivered.   
  
Fine.   
  
Assumptions aside, Bluestreak would let himself be bent over a table later. Because a desperately aroused Ironhide always meant for a ride that promised Bluestreak more overloads than he could count, until he had an ache that he could savor for a week.  
  
Licking his lips, Bluestreak watched Ratchet once more, just in time to see the obscenely long toy pull free with an audible pop. Prowl moaned and his valve fluttered, lubricant spilling out in the wake of the toy and his biolights pulsing fitfully.   
  
Ratchet set the toy aside, where it left a smear of lubricant on the table, as his free hand traced circles around Prowl’s valve rim, gathering up pearls of fluid. His engine grumbled and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s main node.   
  
Prowl’s trembling increased in earnest, his engine making these low, mournful revs. His armor creaked where he held himself, and his field lashed out with so much lust and arousal, it was dizzying. Especially when Ratchet didn’t stop at the gentle kiss. When he made a hungry sound and licked a long line up Prowl’s valve before licking him deep, licking him like he was the tastiest treat around.   
  
Bluestreak _ached_. His entire array throbbed. His spike demanded release. His valve pulsed longingly, and he could feel the wet gathering behind his panel. This was almost torture, damn it.   
  
Ratchet made a sound, one of enjoyment, and pressed a suckling kiss to Prowl’s main node cluster once more before he pulled back.   
  
“Sometimes, I just can’t help myself,” he said, a thumb sweeping around Prowl’s valve rim. “But I suppose I need some restraint. You don’t want to miss the rest of the show.”   
  
Bluestreak worked his intake. “No, we wouldn’t want that,” he said, and maybe his voice sounded a bit faint, but damn it, he couldn’t tell whose cooling fans were louder at this point: his, Ironhide’s or Prowl’s.   
  
Ratchet was a master of suspense, at keeping everyone on the edge, and though neither Ironhide nor Bluestreak were his pets, he still managed to effectively have control of them.   
  
Bluestreak was in awe of him.   
  
“One more, love,” Ratchet said as he stroked his fingers over the panel protecting Prowl’s port. “Open for us.”   
  
Prowl was ever so obedient. The panel snicked aside, revealing the end of a bright green toy, more of a plug than a false spike, however. Ports were shallower than valves.   
  
Bluestreak might have leaned a little closer as Ratchet nudged the plug and wiggled the end of it, making Prowl gasp and jerk.   
  
“Ratchet,” he moaned, closer to a whine, the need in his voice making Bluestreak’s substructure prickle, and he had to stop himself from reaching over and offering Prowl some relief.   
  
“I know,” Ratchet replied, and this time it was closer to a croon, as one hand stroked Prowl’s thigh and the other toyed with the end of the plug. “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you. Just a little bit longer, and you can have your reward.”   
  
Prowl keened.   
  
Ironhide blasted a ventilation so loud it almost made Bluestreak startle.   
  
It was a toss up, at this point, who was going to blow a gasket first.   
  
“If ya don’t give him a reward, I will,” Ironhide teased, though he’d been a part of their games far too long to actually do such a thing.   
  
Ratchet snorted. “He doesn’t need your rough pawing, ‘Hide.” He tilted his head and gave Bluestreak a wink. “Though I might be convinced to let Baby Blue over here love on him a bit.”   
  
Bluestreak groaned. “Stop teasing, Ratch. Or you’ll have to replace burnt chips from all of us tomorrow.”   
  
“And I wouldn’t want to do that.” Ratchet smirked and nuzzled Prowl’s inner thigh. He grasped the end of the plug and gave it a wiggle. “For future reference, Blue, port plugs are the best accessory for long term wear. Especially since they are well suited for all kinds of remote play.”   
  
Remote. Play.   
  
Bluestreak shivered. Yes, the idea of teasing his pretty from across the room, in public, with no one else the wiser appealed to him very, very much.   
  
“Good to know,” he said, even as Ratchet finally took mercy on all of them and started to work the plug free.   
  
Shallow a port might be, but it was capable of accepting items of greater… girth. The plug that Ratchet worked loose made Bluestreak’s internals tighten with lust. It was thick and fat, with a sensory spiral around the circumference of it. The rim of Prowl’s port stretched to accommodate it, shiny with lubricant, and seemed to cling to the plug until it, too, audibly popped free.   
  
Prowl’s port rim fluttered. Biolights flickered madly, lighting up the shadows of his port interior. The plug was discarded as Ratchet’s free hand teased the rim, one finger slipping inside to curl and massage clusters of sensory nodes.   
  
Prowl whined. His backstrut arched, thighs trembling, charge lighting up the room as it spilled out from under his armor. So much heat wafted from his frame that he felt like a furnace, and Bluestreak almost choked on the need in his field.   
  
“So good, love,” Ratchet purred and leaned close to Prowl’s array, his lips barely brushing over his port, his valve, the base of his spike and back down again. “I think you’ve earned a reward. Don’t you, Blue? ‘Hide? Has my love earned a reward?”   
  
“Yes,” Bluestreak said.   
  
“’Course he does,” Ironhide added.   
  
“Well,” Ratchet purred. “The guests have spoken.” He stroked a free hand along Prowl’s inner thighs. “Tell me, love. What would you like as your reward then? Which of these shall I enjoy?” He traced a loving path down Prowl’s spike, down the length of his valve teasing each node cluster along the way, and around the rim of his port.   
  
Prowl trembled so hard that his armor clattered. “W-whatever you wish to reward me with, Ratchet,” he said, vocals liberally laced with static.   
  
Ratchet hummed a laugh. “Good answer,” he purred and leaned in close, ex-venting heat over Prowl’s valve. “I think I shall enjoy all three.”   
  
Oh, Primus.   
  
Bluestreak locked his knees just to keep himself from falling when they turned to jelly. The deviousness in Ratchet’s optics, his smirk, made him wobble. He was captivated, vent-less, as Ratchet followed through on his promise.   
  
Fingers curled around Prowl’s spike, giving him a stroking squeeze, even as Ratchet’s mouth descended on Prowl’s valve, and his other hand slid three fingers knuckles deep into Prowl’s port.   
  
The response was electric.   
  
Prowl’s head tossed back, his entire frame thrashing in a sharp jerk. His knees snapped against the table edge, pedes swinging back to curl under. His backstrut bowed, his engine roared, and the sound that tore from his intake was nothing short of a wail. He thrust down against Ratchet as charge lit up across his frame in a dazzling crackle of blue fire, overload nearly immediate once offered permission.   
  
Bluestreak groaned and gnawed on his lip, hands squeezed into such tight fists they ached, himself refusing the pings his array sent again and again. He was breathless, hovering on the cusp of his own pleasure, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Prowl writhing in the grip of a triple overload.   
  
His spike spurted, long stripes of transfluid decorating his belly, his arms, his chassis, and then trickling down to soak Ratchet’s fingers, a few droplets even splattering Ratchet’s helm. What Bluestreak could see of his valve and port had both clamping down, his port tight on Ratchet’s fingers, his valve fluttering and his swollen anterior node throbbed in the grip of Ratchet’s lips.   
  
All while Ratchet worked him gently, long licks and laps and gentle thrusts and squeezes, extending the pleasure as long as possible. Prowl shuddered and shook, frame a wave of motion on top of the table, his sensory panels twitching hard beneath him.   
  
Bluestreak swayed, dizzy from it all, and didn’t even startle when a hand gripped him by the upper arm. He had a moment, blearily wondering how Ratchet had a hand to spare, until he realized it was Ironhide. He’d somehow come around the table without Bluestreak noticing him, and now he pressed against Bluestreak from behind, hot and heavy and ex-venting scorching air down the back of Bluestreak’s neck.   
  
He moaned and lolled in Ironhide’s grip, stumbling backward, his array aching. Sheer self control kept him from extending himself, but Bluestreak swore his entire frame throbbed with the need to release.   
  
Ironhide tugged, and Bluestreak followed, wondering how in the Pit he could manage to be so coherent. Vision hazy with need, clouded by the suffocating lust, caught Ratchet standing up to gather Prowl into his arms and kiss him deeply, Prowl’s arms and legs instantly clamping around his mate. Little rolls of Ratchet’s hips indicated he was slowly, lovingly fragging Prowl, and somewhere in the buzz of staticky need that filled Bluestreak’s sensors, he heard Prowl whimpering quietly.   
  
Bluestreak moaned and stumbled, finding it all too easy to imagine taking his own pretty to the limit and pushing him farther, building his pleasure to great heights and letting him float in the clouds of ecstasy.   
  
Ironhide tugged him through a door, and Bluestreak expected to be blinded by the bright lights of the exterior corridor. But, no. Here it was dim, barely lit except for a few strips set into the floor, until Ironhide smacked a wall panel.   
  
Here came the blindness, which was nearly enough to distract Bluestreak from the fact they were in a washrack. A private one. Prowl and Ratchet’s washrack.   
  
“What? Wait. We’re not supposed to--”   
  
Ironhide swung him around, and Bluestreak hit the wall just as Ironhide dropped down in front of him and licked a hot stripe up his panel. Bluestreak jabbed a fist into his mouth to muffle his moan even as his panels sprung open, his spike tapping Ironhide on the cheek.   
  
“It’s fine,” Ironhide said as he grasped Bluestreak’s hips. “I asked.” And then he didn’t say anything else because he was too busy swallowing Bluestreak’s spike in one fell swoop, down to the base, the head of it nudging the back of his intake.   
  
Bluestreak whined around his knuckles, his optics flickering as his head slammed back against the wall. His knees trembled, and he thanked Primus for Ironhide’s grip, because surely he would have dropped without it.   
  
Ironhide was relentless, lips and denta and glossa working in concert, swallowing him harsh and deep, sucking like he wanted to pull the overload right out of Bluestreak. Which was good because that was exactly what he did.   
  
Bluestreak gasped, struggling to ventilatte, engine screeching as he bucked. His free hand formed a fist, one that pounded against the wall behind him as he jerked. He overloaded, spilling straight down Ironhide’s intake, his array throbbing and volcanic heat sluicing through his lines.   
  
Ironhide swallowed everything he had to offer before he shoved himself to his pedes and easily hoisted Bluestreak up the length of the wall, until his spike nudged at Bluestreak’s valve in a thick and heavy weight.   
  
“It’s not a table,” he said, vocals dark and just shy of a growl, the blaze of his optics betraying his need.   
  
Bluestreak panted and clamped his thighs tight around Ironhide’s hips, his pedes drumming the back of Ironhide’s thighs. “I don’t care. I swear to Primus if you don’t frag me right now I’m going to shove you down and take care of it myself, see if I don’t!” He rolled his hips, lubricant leaving a wet swath, and moaned as the head of Ironhide’s spike nudged his rim.   
  
A snarl peeled from Ironhide’s intake as he claimed Bluestreak’s mouth in a kiss, his hips snapping forward to sink deep inside Bluestreak in one heavy push. Bluestreak keened against Ironhide’s lips, backstrut arching, his hands gripping Ironhide’s arms as the older mech began to frag him in earnest.   
  
Metal clanged against metal. Bluestreak moaned as Ironhide’s spike raked over his sensor nodes, pounding them with pleasure, surging the arousal back to roaring life. He rolled his hips to match Ironhide’s thrusts, manipulated his calipers to squeeze and ripple around the rock-hard heat of Ironhide’s spike, and gave as good as he got. He buried his cries in the kiss, and nipped at Ironhide’s lips, and spun out his field, wrapping it around Ironhide’s and tugging it into a spiral of lust.   
  
Ironhide growled, all but slamming Bluestreak into the wall as he thrust hard and deep, pounding on Bluestreak’s ceiling node. His field was heavy and blistering, hungry and when he overloaded, he ground deep, spurting his transfluid in searing splashes deep into Bluestreak, triggering him into another overload of his own.   
  
He was glad Ironhide’s mouth was there to drown out the noises he made, because what little escaped echoed in the washracks, as charge crackled fire through his lines and briefly made his vision fill with static. His cooling fans roared, his vents stuttered, and his hips pumped arrhythmically, extending the pleasure as Ironhide throbbed inside of him, grinding deep.  
  
Primus.   
  
Bluestreak moaned against Ironhide’s lips and sagged, his entire frame tingling as his valve rippled and clutched around Ironhide’s spike. His circuits still fairly buzzed with arousal, but at least the fog of need had cleared. He could think straight again.   
  
He tipped his head back, panting, staring up at the obscenely bright lights of Ratchet and Prowl’s private washrack. It was just… really clean in here, too. Did they bleach the tiles or something?   
  
Ironhide leaned his forehead on Bluestreak’s shoulder with a little raspy laugh. “Well,” he said. “Think yer under control enough now that we can take this somewhere I can’t feel Ratchet’s optics on the back of my head?”   
  
Bluestreak snorted. “I dunno.” He squeezed his valve calipers, making them ripple around the mostly pressurized length still nestled snug within him. “Are you?”   
  
Strong hands squeezed his hips. Ironhide laughed again. “You are a brat,” he said as he lifted his head. He slid free of Bluestreak’s valve and retracted his spike, though not without some effort Bluestreak was proud to notice.   
  
“Better a brat than old,” Bluestreak teased as he triggered his valve panel to close, trapping lubricant and transfluid alike inside of him.   
  
Well, he’d just have to make sure Ironhide cleaned up his mess, was all. Not here, because he was pretty sure Ratchet and Prowl were getting antsy. But definitely elsewhere.   
  
“Can still frag ya against a wall though,” Ironhide said with a leer.   
  
Bluestreak licked his lips. “But only half finished the job.”   
  
Ironhide laughed and shook his head. He snatched Bluestreak’s hand and tugged him to the door. “Allow me to fix that then,” he said as he palmed open the door and peered cautiously back into Ratchet and Prowl’s quarters.   
  
Bluestreak poked his head out as well. Ratchet and Prowl were still at the table, Prowl seated on the edge with his legs wrapped around Ratchet’s waist, and Ratchet with his hands propped on the table to either side of Prowl’s hips. Prowl’s arms were over his shoulders and their foreheads pressed together. Ratchet was talking, Bluestreak could see that much, but it was so quietly that it registered as only a low murmur.   
  
His spark gave a twinge.   
  
Someday, he told himself. Someday, he’d have a partner like that, too.   
  
Ironhide gave him a gentle pull toward the door, and Bluestreak let him take the lead, assuming that Ironhide was in some sort of comm contact with Ratchet. The door wasn’t locked, so they let themselves out, and it locked behind them.   
  
“So,” Ironhide said as he squeezed Bluestreak’s arm before letting him go, “my place or yours?”   
  
Bluestreak laughed and arched an orbital ridge. “Depends. Do you have a table?”


	10. Generosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironhide gets invited for another session with Bluestreak and Jazz, and this time, as an even more active participant.

“Hey,” said the message, seemingly innocent, but Ironhide knew better than to assume that, “interested in playing a game?”   
  
Ironhide squinted at the text and wondered just what devious thing had crawled into Bluestreak’s processor this time, and how many overloads he’d get out of it, and whether or not he could even survive that much pleasure.   
  
He still wondered how Jazz did it.   
  
“Depends,” Ironhide finally responded. He didn’t want to sound too eager after all. He wasn’t desperate or anything. He had plenty of berths that welcomed him, even if he did like these games the most. “What is it?”   
  
“I’ll let you participate,” Blue said with a winking emoticon. “I’ve got a Pretty eager to serve.”   
  
Ironhide would never admit to the little _ping_ his spike made when it instantly pressurized and was stopped by the locked panel in front of it. “I guess I’m not busy,” he replied with what he hoped was enough casualness to belie how suddenly eager he was. “When?”   
  
And that was how he found himself here and now, less than ten minutes after receiving the message, on Bluestreak’s berth with the cute sniper draped atop him and kissing him senseless. Bluestreak was a good kisser. He knew just when to press, when to retreat, when to nibble, and when to lick. He made all of these adorable little humming sounds, too, like he really enjoyed kissing.   
  
It was hardly a trial to kiss Bluestreak.   
  
“Mmm,” Bluestreak hummed and sucked on Ironhide’s bottom lip and wriggled on top of Ironhide, sliding their armor together, all hot and heavy. “Like kissing you.”   
  
“I noticed.” Ironhide chuckled and dragged his hands up Bluestreak’s back, tweaking the hinges of his doorwings. “But can’t help but feel like we got an audience.”   
  
Bluestreak arched his back, doorwings canting toward Ironhide’s fingers in silent demand. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just here to be useful.”   
  
Useful, he said.   
  
Ironhide’s gaze slid to the side, where a kneeling Jazz watched them with a hungry visor, a puddle beneath him, and his hands folded in his lap. He was practically jittering with the urge to participate, but surprising obedience kept him kneeling there.   
  
Ironhide would admit he didn’t really understand the purpose of this game or what Jazz got out of it or why he even wanted it. But he did get the rules, knew that Bluestreak had a plan that Jazz had agreed to in full, and Ironhide was here to play a part.   
  
“Useful, eh?” Ironhide said and rolled up against Bluestreak, sliding a knee between the sniper’s legs. “How so?”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and nipped at his nasal ridge. “I’ll show you,” he purred before he pulled back, out of Ironhide’s arms, shifting to straddle Ironhide’s hips instead. He leaned forward, their lips inches apart, his hands braced to either side of Ironhide’s head. “I’m going to frag you tonight. You mind?”   
  
Ironhide found Bluestreak’s hips and gave them a squeeze. “When have I ever?” he asked with a laugh. “Kinda miss my cute berth buddy, ya know?”  
  
“Well, I kinda miss my rusty old pillow.” Bluestreaker smirked and turned his head. “Ironhide’s going to need some prep work, pet. Get to it.”   
  
Oh.   
  
_Useful._   
  
Ironhide’s engine revved with glee, even as Jazz nodded and rose to his pedes, lubricant staining his inner thighs. “Yes, master,” he said with a deferential dip of his helm.   
  
“Make room for him, will you?” Bluestreak wriggled his hips and turned his attention back toward Ironhide. “Don’t want to make his job too difficult now?”   
  
“No. Not at all,” Ironhide said and spread his knees across the berth, leaving enough room for Jazz to crawl between them and ex-vent hot and wet over his closed panel.   
  
Frag making Jazz work for it. Ironhide was too eager to feel that hot mouth on his array, so he let his panel snick aside and shivered when lips descended on his anterior node cluster first. They announced themselves with a soft kiss and a nuzzle before a glossa introduced itself as well, giving his node a flick.   
  
Ironhide groaned and felt his thighs quiver.   
  
“Good?” Bluestreak asked.   
  
Ironhide cycled a long ventilation as Jazz licked the length of his valve before diving in, licking and sucking and lapping and making all of these lewd, wet noises. Heat quickly spiraled in the wake of his ministrations, and lubricant trickled out, only to be caught by Jazz’s glossa.   
  
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bluestreak murmured and nipped at Ironhide’s chin before his mouth wandered further, burrowing against the sensitive cables of Ironhide’s intake.   
  
A barely audible click announced the appearance of Bluestreak’s spike, and Ironhide groaned as the hot length slid along his abdominal armor, smearing drops of pre-fluid in its wake. Bluestreak’s mouth worked hot pleasure on his intake as Ironhide’s hands sought the sensitive mounts for Bluestreak’s sensory panels.   
  
They were going to kill him with pleasure, he decided, as Jazz latched onto his anterior node and gave it a deep suck, making Ironhide jerk and hiss. Jazz’s glossa immediately soothed over it, lapped down the length of his valve, and teased at his lower sensor cluster instead, with a flick, flick, flick that Ironhide’s hips twitched to follow.   
  
Ironhide moaned and let his own spike extend, shivering as it brushed over Bluestreak’s and sent a frisson of heat licking up his backstrut.   
  
“Oh, are we dueling with swords now?” Bluestreak asked as he pushed himself up and back, all cheeky like. His hands found both of their spikes and pressed them together in a strong stroke.   
  
Ironhide rolled his hips and dropped his hands to Bluestreak’s thighs. “Do that again.”   
  
“So demanding,” Bluestreak purred, but he obeyed, fisting their spikes together and pumping them in long, squeezing strokes.   
  
A groan tore itself from Ironhide’s intake. His thighs trembled. The slow squeezes combined with Jazz’s determined licking made lust coil hotly inside of him. His valve quivered, pulsing lubricant, as lips and denta nipped at his nodes and suckled on his rim. His calipers spiraled tight, trying to clamp down on nothing, and then Jazz moved to his exterior lower node, lashing it wildly with his glossa.   
  
Caught between them, Ironhide couldn’t do anything but shudder and groan, his valve getting wetter and hotter, his spike throbbing and soaking Bluestreak’s fingers with pre-fluid. Pleasure built and built inside of him, climbing to a larger crescendo.   
  
Ironhide’s grip on Bluestreak’s hips tightened, stressing the metal. “Ahhh, Blue. If yer gonna frag me, better do it soon. ‘Cause yer pretty there is doin’ too good of a job.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and squeezed the tip of Ironhide’s spike, his thumb teasing around the damp opening. “And here I thought you had better stamina than that,” he teased, but he half-turned and tapped Jazz on the crown of the helm. “Enough, pet. He’s ready for me.”   
  
A parting nip to Ironhide’s anterior node and Jazz pulled back. “Yes, sir,” he said as he licked his lips, his visor bright and hungry. “What would you like me to do now, sir?”   
  
Bluestreak shifted off Ironhide’s lap, moving instead to kneel between his thighs as Jazz scuttled to the side, getting out of his way. Ironhide had to admit he was fascinated as he watched their interplay, propping himself up on his elbows to better see.   
  
“Hmm, that’s a good question.” Bluestreak positioned himself, his hands sliding up Ironhide’s legs, over his knees, and across the top of his thighs. His spike brushed over Ironhide’s valve, briefly nudging his swollen anterior node.   
  
Bluestreak’s gaze shifted to Ironhide. “Is there something my pet can do for you, Ironhide?”   
  
He hadn’t been given a script for this. His gaze darted between Jazz, who looked hungry, and Bluestreak, who looked devious. Mech had been taking far too many lessons from Ratchet, apparently.   
  
“My spike’s pretty lonely now,” Ironhide offered, hoping it was the right choice.   
  
Bluestreak rolled his hips again, the head of his spike barely breaching Ironhide’s valve rim, only to linger, forcing Ironhide’s rim to flutter indecisively.   
  
“I think you’re right,” Bluestreak said. He reached out, grabbed Jazz’s jaw, sweeping a thumb over his lips. “What’s the rule, pet?”   
  
“No overloading,” Jazz recited with a hitched breath. His hands curled into fists where they rested on his knees.   
  
“Very good.” Bluestreak stroked under Jazz’s chin. “Now make yourself useful and give Ironhide’s spike a nice home. Hm?”   
  
A soft moan escaped Jazz’s lips. He visibly shivered, his field flashing through the room in a quick fire of lust.   
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
Jazz stirred into motion, swinging a leg over Ironhide’s frame to straddle his hips. He reached down and guided Ironhide’s spike to his valve, sinking down upon it in a slow, luxurious slide that made Ironhide’s backstrut tingle. His hands found Jazz’s waist even as Bluestreak slid his arms around Jazz from behind, hooking his chin over Jazz’s shoulder.   
  
“There,” he purred, “nice and snug.” And then Bluestreak rolled his hips and thrust, sinking deep into Ironhide in one long, deep push.   
  
Ironhide moaned, head tipped back, stars dancing in his optical feed. He hooked his ankles behind Bluestreak, deepening the angle so that the next rock of Bluestreak’s hips struck a cluster of nodes near the back of his valve. Doing so sent a lash of heat through his array, especially when Jazz circled his hips in a little shimmy dance that rippled up and down Ironhide’s spike.   
  
“Any objections, Ironhide?” Bluestreak asked, his tone absolutely wicked and definitely learned from Ratchet.   
  
“None,” he gasped as he hauled down on Jazz’s hips, grinding deep and making the saboteur cry out, head tipping back against Bluestreak.   
  
“Remember, no overloading,” Bluestreak warned, the little demon, even as his hands swept over Jazz’s headlights, his palms making soft, circular motions. Jazz’s valve rippled around Ironhide’s spike, clamping down hard, charge zipping between sensor and receptor nodes in a fiery bite.   
  
“Y-yes, sir,” Jazz stammered. He licked his lips, frame surging as he rode Ironhide’s spike and leaned back against Bluestreak, who was fondling his headlights with pinches and squeezes, until they flickered.   
  
Bluestreak grinned, and while one hand continued to grope Jazz’s headlight, the other slipped up under his bumper, tweaking something that made Jazz jerk and cry out. His hands clawed the air before they latched onto Bluestreak’s arms.   
  
Ironhide was enraptured.   
  
The sight of Jazz, uninhibited, trembling as he struggled to hold back his pleasure while providing Ironhide with plenty of his own, was intoxicating. Bluestreak’s mastery of the situation, his easy manipulation of Jazz even while continuing to frag Ironhide in long, deep strokes was equally so.  
  
Had they done this before? With someone else? Ironhide didn’t know, but damn if they didn’t have the perfect rhythm. Bluestreak thrust deep, and Jazz rose up. Bluestreak withdrew, and Jazz sank down with a wriggle and a ripple of his calipers.   
  
Ironhide groaned, ventilating hot bursts of air, his cooling fans spinning so fast they vibrated the berth, just as his engine did. Their fields assaulted him, throbbing with lust and arousal, and the whole room was thick with the scent of it.   
  
He wasn’t going to last at this rate. He said as much.   
  
Bluestreak just chuckled and nuzzled into Jazz’s audial. “You’re our guest. It’s only polite that you get to overload first,” he said, fingers scraping audibly over Jazz’s flickering headlight even as he tweaked something under Jazz’s bumper.   
  
A sharp cry and Jazz arched his backstrut, his valve clamping fitfully around Ironhide’s spike, dragging him deep, sensor nodes spitting rapid-bursts of charge at Ironhide’s receptors. Bluestreak thrust deep as well, grinding hard, his housing putting a heavy pressure on Ironhide’s exterior nodes.   
  
More stars danced in his optics. His ventilations caught, hands squeezing on Jazz’s hips. Arousal roared through him, lightning sluicing through his lines, through his sensory net. The hot coil of need in his belly twisted and twisted into a heavy knot, a building explosion that finally burst in overload.   
  
Ironhide roared as he pulled Jazz onto his spike and splattered his ceiling node with transfluid, his spike pulsing and pulsing as Jazz’s calipers wrung him dry. Jazz moaned, his field full of restrained need, as Bluestreak clutched him tight and followed Ironhide over. The hot splash of his release triggered Ironhide’s valve and sent him cycling into a second overload before the first had cleared his systems, and he bucked beneath them, entire frame wrought with pleasure.   
  
His sensory feed fritzed with static, world narrowing to hot-white ecstasy, until he crashed back into his frame, a sated, trembling heap coated in condensation and tingling. He cycled his optics, rebooting them, treated to the sight of Bluestreak’s hands sliding down Jazz’s frame.   
  
Jazz who was trembling so hard his armor clattered and charge leapt out from his substructure. His frame poured a suffocating heat. His valve was sopping, fluttering madly around Ironhide’s semi-pressurized spike and proof-positive that he’d obeyed. He hadn’t overloaded.   
  
“Good job, pet,” Bluestreak said before he patted Jazz’s belly and leaned back. “Off you go. Our guest needs a cleaning before your job is done.”   
  
Jazz moaned and lolled forward, moving with glacial shifts of his weight. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he slurred as Ironhide’s spike slid free of the snug confines of his valve.   
  
He was obedient, however, as he immediately turned around and leaned over Ironhide’s frame, lips parting as his glossa swept over Ironhide’s spike and array in long licks, lapping up his own lubricant and Ironhide’s transfluid.   
  
“Primus,” Ironhide swore and loosed a long groan. “You’re both of you fragging menaces.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and patted Ironhide’s thighs. “Is that a complaint I hear, old mech?”   
  
“Ask me again tomorrow.” Ironhide licked his lips and felt his systems stir as Jazz’s diligence made his internals clench with arousal.   
  
He was getting sloppy though, Ironhide noticed. No doubt because of the need simmering in his lines and the way he could barely keep himself upright. He cleaned Ironhide’s spike in due time, giving him leave to retract it back into the safety of his housing.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “You know, you never complained this much when it was Prowl and Ratchet putting on a show.” He shifted back, spike slipping free of Ironhide, and when he moved away, Jazz was quick to take his place.   
  
Ironhide didn’t want to miss that. He propped himself back up on his elbows, watching avidly as Jazz bent to work, glossa once again working between Ironhide’s thighs. Long licks swept up transfluid and lubricant alike, gentle around oversensitive nodes, and pressing deep to gather up every drop.   
  
“I do, you’re just usually not around to see it,” Ironhide replied with a chuckle. Anything to distract himself from the tempting sight of Jazz licking every trace of his master from Ironhide’s valve.   
  
Bluestreak grinned. “If you say so.” He reached out, his hand petting over the curve of Jazz’s helm. “He’s doing good, I hope?”   
  
“More than.” Ironhide licked his lips. “Glad to see that obedience trainin’ is startin’ to work out.   
  
“He still has his moments, but that’s okay. I like a challenge.” Bluestreak’s tone shifted toward fond, affectionate even, and Jazz’s engine rumbled.   
  
The noisy, nearly obscene noises of him lapping eased. Ironhide’s entire array tingled in the aftermath as Jazz finally sat back on his heels, licking his lips clean.   
  
“I’m done, master,” he said.   
  
“Yes, you are. And such a good job you did. I’m impressed, pet.” Bluestreak grabbed Jazz’s arm, tugging him close, and Ironhide sat fully up, pulling his legs out of the way. He watched, avid, as Bluestreak curved an arm around Jazz’s waist and used the other to gently hold Jazz’s chin.   
  
“And you didn’t overload,” Bluestreak observed.   
  
“No, master,” Jazz replied, his vocals shaky, his frame clattering even harder.   
  
Bluestreak’s voice went even softer, practically a croon that in any other situation would have come across as condescending. “Such a good pet you are.” He leaned in close, nuzzling their nasal ridges. “One who has earned his overload, I think. So go on, pet. Let go.”   
  
Jazz whined low in his intake, hands clutching at Bluestreak’s sides. His hips made little rocking motions into thin air, and that was when Bluestreak kissed him, long and deep, optics shuttered and mouth moving ever so slow.   
  
A low sound rose in Jazz’s intake, a cross between a moan and a whimper. He shook from helm to pede as he keened before he jerked, and his field flashed throughout the room, overload crackling like electric fire over his armor.   
  
From a kiss.   
  
Primus.   
  
Bluestreak hummed into the kiss and pulled back, his hand gently stroking Jazz’s face. “Good boy,” he murmured as one finger traced over the curve of Jazz’s jaw and down his intake. “Session’s over now.”   
  
A low whimper crawled out of Jazz’s intake. He nodded and tipped forward, forehead resting on Bluestreak’s chestplate. “Thank you,” he whispered.   
  
“You’re welcome.” Bluestreak patted Jazz on the back, his other hand continuing to stroke his partner’s face. Jazz was shivering now, different than the trembling of delayed overload, but there was a calm in his field, one that Ironhide envied.   
  
He pulled himself entirely upright, dangling one leg over the edge of the berth. He didn’t feel awkward, not quite, but he also wondered if he should quietly leave. The game was over, after all. The rest was a vulnerability Ironhide wasn’t sure he was invited to witness.   
  
Bluestreak kept stroking Jazz gently, shifting a little to lean back against the wall and get more comfortable. “Hey, sweets. Let’s see about getting you cleaned up, yeah?”   
  
“I ain’t that dirty,” Jazz retorted, somewhat muffled given that his face was smooshed against Bluestreak’s bumper.   
  
“Well, maybe I just like cleaning you up, sweetspark.” Bluestreak nuzzled him with a little laugh. “Feel better?”   
  
Jazz lifted his head and licked Bluestreak’s chin. “Ya know I do.” He turned his gaze toward Ironhide, lips curved with a soft smile. “Yer awful quiet.”   
  
Ironhide spread his hands. “Felt appropriate.” He tilted his head as he looked at the two of them, all cutely coiled together and stuff. “Didn’t want ta interrupt.”   
  
Jazz shrugged. “You were invited. If we didn’t want ya here, we’d have kicked ya out already.”   
  
“Good to know.” Ironhide hopped down from the berth then, still soaking up the lazy comfort the double overloads had left in him. “But I still think I oughta be goin’ now. As much fun as it was.”   
  
“You’re leaving?” Bluestreak shifted, adjusting Jazz in his lap as his face creased with confusion. “You can stay if you want. You don’t have to leave just ‘cause we’re done playing.”   
  
Ironhide shook his helm. “That ain’t it, baby blue.” He grinned and stretched his arms over his helm. “Ya’ll just look so cozy it reminded me of a story a little birdie whispered into my audial this morning.”   
  
Jazz squirmed into Bluestreak, nosing into the sniper’s throat. “Wouldn’t be the one about Prime, would it?”  
  
“That very same.” Ironhide dropped his arms and rolled his helm, easing the krick in his neck. “Rumor has it that if I time it just right, I can pounce and drag him to a berth.”   
  
Jazz chuckled. “Good. He ain’t recharged in a week. He needs it.”  
  
“Glad I have yer approval,” Ironhide drawled, his lips quirked in a grin. “Thanks for the invitation. Anytime ya’ll need a third, ya know who to call.”   
  
Bluestreak snorted. “How generous of you.”   
  
“I’m just that kind of mech.” Ironhide winked and their laughter followed him out, an altogether joyous sound. They were so good for each other, Ironhide couldn’t help but figuratively pat himself on the back.   
  
He’d done good there, hooking those two up. Very good.   
  
Now.   
  
To see about a Prime.   
  
Because Ironhide is just that kind of charitable.   
  


****


	11. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the rarest of play they indulge in, but one of the most important, for Ratchet’s peace of mind, and Prowl’s peace of spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enticements: Dom/Sub, BDSM Themes, Master/Pet, Petplay, Total Power Exchange Elements

Prowl kneels, waiting patiently. He shivers, anticipation like an oil bath over his armor. The craving sets in, as his processor whirls and hums, a predator held at bay against the prey of desperately needed figures and calculations.   
  
Ratchet hums as he starts to work. He has a pleasant voice. It soothes Prowl’s spark.   
  
The first accessory – a thick collar with a heavy loop on the front – snaps into place around Prowl’s intake. With it, comes the first burst of relief. The metal is cold, but warms quickly against his dermal plating. The weight of it is a promise.   
  
Duty slides away, behind the click of the lock.   
  
Second comes the leash, a long, braided length of platinum – more show than function. It clips into the collar and hangs loose until Ratchet drapes the end over one of Prowl’s shoulders.   
  
The  _snick_  washes away responsibility and leaves behind a simple command – obey. In Ratchet’s hands, this is always the easiest part. Prowl so often is the one giving orders, leaving that behind to lay his trust in Ratchet’s hands and only  _obey_  leaves him weak in the knees.   
  
The trembles increase in earnest. Soon, Prowl whispers to himself. Soon.   
  
“One more.” Ratchet gently, playfully, taps his nose. “Down, please.”   
  
Prowl whimpers, heat surging through his lines. He obeys, sliding his hands forward, palms across the floor, until he presses his chevron to the cool metal. He shifts his knees open, parts his thighs, and presents his aft to his master. He reveals both valve and port without asking.   
  
He’s slick. Air currents tease his damp valve folds, and his port rim twitches. He’s swollen, his main anterior cluster throbbing with need. Lust has soaked him from the moment he bowed his head earlier, nudged himself under Ratchet’s chin, and made the quiet plea.   
  
Pleasure-lust, yes. But peace-lust more. He craves it, and Ratchet had stroked a hand down his back, beneath the hinge of his doorwings, as he nuzzled the top of Prowl’s head and agreed.   
  
This, the rarest of their scenes, and always private.   
  
Well.   
  
Private save for whichever mech watches the video later. Prowl pointedly doesn’t look at the cameras surreptitiously placed, recording to a private server for later enjoyment. His. Theirs. Whomever they trust with the footage.   
  
Fingers glide over his valve rim, tasting his slick, dragging Prowl’s attention back to his master. He chastises himself for letting his attention slip.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Ratchet murmurs as those same fingers circle the smaller rim of Prowl’s port, teasing it. “I’ll make it go away.”   
  
The promise clenches Prowl’s spark, fills it with love. He pants, ex-vents fogging the floor, fingers curling against it. His aft bobs, pushing towards Ratchet’s fingers. He doesn’t have to say please. Ratchet’s field is already agreeing.   
  
Two fingers work into him; unnecessary, but this play has never been about pain like some of the others. Pain doesn’t belong in the here and now.   
  
Prowl’s optics shutter. He pants harder. His fingers curl in and out, scraping the floor. His spike throbs, trapped. It will serve a purpose later.   
  
For now, there is only the brief loss of stretching fingers before they are replaced by the last accessory. The plug squirms inside him, slick with extra lubricant, long and thick, filling him completely. His port clenches around it as it notches deep, his rim closing around the plug’s end. The soft synthetic fur brushes the back of his thighs, black to match his paint scheme.   
  
Guilt is thus buried, deep under a pile of indulgence and care.   
  
Ratchet lifts the end of the leash. “Come, Panther,” he says. “Up.”   
  
All the rest slides away.   
  
Prowl ex-vents and pushes himself to his hands and knees. The plug shifts in his aft, a constant reminder of its presence, along with the sweep of synthetic fur. His valve clenches, sympathetic and empty, squeezing out a pearl of lubricant. The tug on the collar, faint but there, is a reminder.   
  
Command seals itself in an iron cage, and obedience swallows the key. Prowl hides himself, taking solace in the bars, and Panther rises, giving him room to be.   
  
“Good hound,” Ratchet says, his voice rich with approval. He crouches down next to Panther, free hand sliding over Panther’s head. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”   
  
Panther makes a soft sound of agreement. No words. Turbohounds have no words, only needs.   
  
Care. Shelter. Fuel.   
  
Rutting.   
  
“That’s what I thought.” Ratchet smiles and rises again. “Come on then. I’ve got your favorite. Figured you’ve been so good, you’ve earned it.”   
  
Ratchet moves toward the main room. He doesn’t have to tug on the leash for Panther to follow, on hands and knees, plug shifting and pressing his nodes into singing delight. His engine revs. Ratchet looks down at him and smiles.   
  
Panther’s spark flutters at the sight of his Master’s happiness.   
  
In the main room, his dishes wait, two wide and shallow bowls arranged side by side on top of a small towel. In one is a liquid energon, the other a candied, flaked treat that melts on Panther’s glossa and occasionally crunches as he chews. Panther’s glossa moistens, and a happy whine emerges from his throat. He knows better than to rush forward.   
  
Master appreciates his patience.   
  
Ratchet laughs. “Don’t worry. You can have as much as you want.”   
  
Panther licks his lips. He doesn’t know which to have first, and sniffs at the bowls as Ratchet urges him toward them. He guides the loop of the leash over a small hook nearby. Not that Panther has any interest in running off, it’s more about presentation.   
  
Today’s liquid energon smells really plain. Panther gives it a lick and wrinkles his nasal ridge. Oh, it tastes fine enough, but it’s not a treat. He moves his attention to the other bowl and grabs a mouthful of the crisps. Oh, they are perfect. Sweet and tangy, fizzing on his glossa even.   
  
He hears Ratchet move away. Panther looks up, confused, but Ratchet waves a hand.   
  
“It’s okay, pet. Keep eating. I’m just prepping your toys.”   
  
Toys.   
  
Panther’s engine purrs. He returns his attention to the treat dish, carefully eating bite after bite, occasionally sipping from the other bowl to wash it down. His tanks warm as the pockets of energon give him little bursts of energy. Master always has the best ideas.   
  
He only finishes half the bowl of treats by the time Master returns, slipping the end of the leash from the hook and giving it a light tug.   
  
“Ready to play, boy?” Ratchet asks, his voice a little raspier than usual. Panther knows that tone of voice. Master is eager to get started.   
  
Panther’s hips waggle. He licks his lips and turns toward his master, crooning a soft yip of agreement. He tilts his head as he realizes Master is holding something in his other hand. It’s some kind of board with colorful knobs all over it.   
  
Panther tilts his head to the other side and his doorwings cant with confusion.   
  
“It’s a new toy. For smarter hounds,” Master says, and moves toward his chair, Panther following on hands and knees. His tail swishes behind him, port clenching and keeping his arousal at a low simmer.   
  
Sometimes, he just wishes Master would get on to the really fun play. But he’s also intrigued by this new toy. He’s never seen anything like it before. Usually they play a modified form of Catch or Tug.   
  
Ratchet settles into his chair, hooks the leash over the arm of it, and leans over to set the toy on the ground in front of him. Panther pads nearer to it, giving it a sniff. It smells like wood and something sweet behind the wood. He pokes at one of the colorful blocks with his hand, and the block moves into the empty space next to it. There, in the gap, something shiny peers up at him.   
  
Panther tilts his head and nudges the block again, revealing a tiny little energon treat in the cubby. His optics light up as bends over and snags it with his denta, chomping down on the treat. It’s chewy and filled with a sweet gel.   
  
Panther makes a noise of delight and looks up at his master.   
  
“For smart hounds indeed,” Ratchet says and props his chin on his fist, looking down at Panther affectionately. “Find all the treats and then we can have a new game.”   
  
Panther’s engine revs with excitement. He nudges the toy again, finding it to be rather simple, all things considered. It doesn’t take him long to root out all the little treats, though the one that makes him spin and spin a tiny dial takes a little longer to figure out.   
  
Master watches the whole time, until he leans down and pats Panther on the head. He pets him, rubbing behind his audials and scratching under his collar. It feels so good. Panther leans into the pets, and quivers with excitement as the hand strokes down his back, between his doorwings. He hunches down a little, offers his aft, and clenches down on the plug deep in his port.   
  
He doesn’t have to look to know he’s left little drips all over the floor. His valve has been leaking so much. He knows better than to rush though. Master will get to all of it eventually. He always does.   
  
Master keeps petting him. Panther’s engine rumbles. He snatches up the last treat with his denta and nudges the toy away. He’s done! So he rises up, drapes his front half into Master’s lap, and Ratchet huffs a little laugh.   
  
“Good job,” he says, both hands petting Panther’s head and shoulders and back now. “You really are a smart boy, aren’t you?”   
  
Panther’s engine whines, and he licks Master’s cheek, his field spilling out with joy. Ratchet chuckles and strokes him, fingers slipping into seams to scratch his cables beneath.   
  
“You liked that toy, I take it,” Master comments and grins when Panther licks him again, leaning his weight harder on his master. He tries to crawl into Ratchet’s lap but Ratchet just laughs again and puts his hands on Panther’s shoulders.   
  
“Yes, you must have,” he says. “Down, Panther, you energetic thing. Too bad I can’t take you for a walk right now. I think you need to work off some of that energy.”   
  
Panther reluctantly backs off, recognizing the command. He sits on his haunches and looks up at his master, vents whirring, plug pressing against the floor and by proxy, deeper into him. He whines a little as another burst of pleasure peppers his array. More lubricant pools beneath him.   
  
He looks down at it. Maybe he should lick it up?   
  
“Until then...” Ratchet reaches down and grips his jaw, tilting his head up so that he looks into Ratchet’s optics. “I think I have an alternative, lovely.” His thumb strokes over Panther’s jaw. His other hand pets over Panther’s head.   
  
Panther whines and licks Master’s hand. Master’s fingers taste so good, like his lubricant and like arousal, and Panther licks them some more. He wants to play again. He does!  
  
Ratchet smiles and leans back in his chair. He spreads his knees, making room between them, and pats his thighs, dragging his fingers toward up toward the apex of them.   
  
Panther watches avidly, his optics growing wide, his lips parting in a helpless pant. He knows these gestures very well. His audials listen intently for the command that usually comes next. He doesn’t want to presume.   
  
The soft click of a panel spiraling open makes the need grow inside Panther. His mouth fills with lubricant, his senses canted forward. The scent of Master’s lubricant floats to his nose, so sweet, and when he looks, Master’s hand is between his own thighs, fingers bracketed to either side of his valve.   
  
“Come here, boy,” Master murmurs, crooking a finger toward Panther in a gesture he’s been trained to recognize. The crooked finger tilts down and taps on the inside of Master’s thigh. “I have a treat for you.”   
  
And what a treat it is. Panther whines in the back of his intake and crawls forward, inhaling the scent of his master’s lubricant, his arousal, his heat. The antiseptic scent of him, and weldfire, and cleanser.   
  
He noses between Master’s thighs, his forehead bumping against the back of Master’s knuckles. He looks up in question as Master’s free hand falls on his helm, silently urging him closer, as Master’s thighs push further apart, making more room for him.   
  
His first lick is tentative, tasting even. He swipes the flat of his glossa along the length of Master’s valve, laving the plump folds of it, getting a hint of pearly lubricant. It’s sweet on the tip of his glossa, and he feels the throb of Master’s main node against his glossa. Panther rumbles a growl and dives back in, licking Master’s valve folds and licking deeper into him, trying to get as much lubricant as he can.   
  
He hears Master vent heavily, hears the soft sigh of pleasure. Master’s hand is gentle on his head, rubbing him encouragingly, and Panther purrs as he laps at his master’s valve. Master tastes so good, and his valve pulses against Panther’s glossa, and his hips are rocking. More lubricant leaks out, but Panther licks it up before it can make a mess.   
  
Master’s thighs spread further open as he sinks down in the chair, making it easier for Panther to lick at him. He flicks the tip of his glossa over Master’s node, again and again, and then concentrates on his lower node, too. The little cluster of sensors always makes Master moan.   
  
“Good boy,” Master murmurs and his field washes over Panther, thick with hunger and approval. “You’re such a good boy, Panther.”  
  
A low whine rises in Panther’s intake. He paws at the floor as he presses his face against Master’s valve, wanting to go as deep as possible, make Master happy. Master’s hand wraps around the back of his head, keeping him where he wants to be. His thighs tremble to either side of Panther’s head.   
  
“G-good boy,” Master says, his vocals filling with static now, the chair creaking as he rocks his hips. “Lick my node, Panther. Make sure there’s no mess.”   
  
Orders. Commands. It’s so easy to obey them.   
  
Panther growls and focuses on Master’s main node, licks it again and again and again, stopping only to lap up drips of lubricant before diving back in.   
  
He hears Master moan and pant, faster and louder. Master’s hand clenches and trembles on his head. And then suddenly it moves to Panther’s forehead with a light shove.   
  
“E-enough,” Master pants, scooting back, his valve visibly clenching with denied pleasure. “There’s still one more game, pet. If you want to play.”   
  
Panther’s dripping valve and concealed spike throb in agreement. He nips at Master’s fingertips and licks his lips, feeling the tackiness of lubricant on his face.   
  
Master’s palm cups his head and slides around his face, pressing up under his chin to tilt his head up, ignoring the mess now on his fingers. “You’ve been such a good pet today. So I will allow you to take me.” His thumb rubs over Panther’s lip, and obediently, Panther gives it a lick.   
  
Panther shivers, his spike throbbing inside his sheath. Being allowed to take Master is such a rare treat. His aft wiggles against the ground, tail swishing across the floor, and he licks Master’s palm harder.   
  
“I see you like that reward.” Master chuckles, though there’s strain in it. His field is flush with heat, and Panther can taste the arousal in it.   
  
Master pats Panther’s head and stands, lubricant slicking his thighs almost immediately. Panther wants to lick it, but it seems like Master has other plans. He takes the leash in hand and gives it a tug, guiding Panther toward the berthroom. Panther’s spike throbs harder, head grinding against the panel concealing it, but he knows better than to allow it free.   
  
The door closes behind them, lights activating to a romantic half-brightness. Master kneels in front of Panther, fingers still wrapped around the leash, as Panther sits back on his aft, knees drawn up. It pushes the plug deeper into his aft and a low whine ekes out of his intake. He resists the urge to grind down and whines again when Master reaches for his spike panel, dragging a fingertip across the domed metal. Panther shivers.   
  
“Such a patient, pet,” Master murmurs with a curve of his lips. “You can open now, Panther. Let me see that big spike of yours.”   
  
Panther snaps his panel open almost immediately, relief trickling down his spinal strut as his spike juts free, glossy with pre-fluid and throbbing. Master’s hand curves around it, giving it a squeeze and a tug, and Panther whines, his hips following the motion.   
  
“You’re ready for me,” Master says with a hum. “That’s good.” He lets go of Panther’s spike, ignoring Panther’s whine of rejection, and lets the end of the leash dangle on the floor. “Stay, boy,”   
  
Stay. Every inch of Panther’s being wants to rut, he’s shaking from it. His plating is open to help expel heat. His spike is throbbing. Master is hot for him. And he has to stay.  
  
So he does. He waits as Master stretches his arms over his head, making his joints creak, before he pulls a padded mat out from under the berth. He spreads it across the floor, achingly slow, little drips of lubricant glistening on the insides of his thighs. He slides onto it, on hands and knees, fingers kneading the plush mat. He looks over at Panther with hunger in his optics, his gaze flicking from top to bottom, before his optics light up.   
  
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Master’s grin is devilish as he rummages under the berth again and pulls an item out of the toy chest.   
  
The small, metal ring glints in the overhead light. Panther’s engine revs as Master summons him closer with a crook of his finger, and Panther inches into his Master’s reach. He pants as Master’s hand curls around his spike in two nice strokes, and Panther rocks into his Master’s grip.   
  
“I can’t have you overloading inside me,” Master murmurs as he thumbs the top of Panther’s spike. “That just won’t do at all. Now stay still.”   
  
Panther locks his joints and waits, a low whine building inside of him. He watches Master slip the ring around his spike and notch it at the base, a low pulse keeping it locked in place, and stopping him from overloading.   
  
“There. Much better.” Master strokes his spike again and shifts back onto the mat.   
  
He puts himself in a very familiar position, on his knees and elbows, aft pointed upward, knees slightly spread. He looks at Panther and shifts his weight, reaching back to pat his aft.   
  
“Come on, boy,” he says before he reaches for the end of the leash and takes it in his fingers. “Mount.”   
_  
Mount._    
  
An inferno of need roars through Panther’s frame. He knows this command, to the quiver in his spark, the throb in his spike, the arousal in his groin. He licks his lips and crawls over to his Master, guided by the gentle tug on the leash.   
  
Master’s beautiful valve is on display, so wet and open and inviting. Panther wants to lick him, but that hadn’t been the command.   
  
_Mount._    
  
He doesn’t have to think about it. Debate it. Weigh the proper course of action. All he has to do is obey.   
  
Panther’s spike twitches. He rises up, drapes himself over Master’s back, lines up his spike to that plush and dripping valve. He can feel the rumble of Master’s engine against his chest. He braces himself on the floor and rocks his hips, blindly searching, rutting against Master’s aft.  
  
He whines as he struggles to find Master’s valve. The tug on the leash becomes a bit more insistent. Master vents heat, his field wobbly with need against Panther’s.   
  
“Good boy,” Master murmurs, his aft pushing back toward Panther’s hips, canting to try and help Panther along. “Just a bit more.”   
  
Panther growls and snaps his hips forward, his spike finding Master’s valve, parting the mesh pleats of it, and sinking deep in one quick push. Master moans and clenches around him, his valve rippling, and Panther moans with him.   
  
Master’s grip on the leash tightens more, as he twists it around his wrist, tugging Panther firmly on top of him, keeping him in place. He can’t do anything more than rut against Master, thrusting into him over and over, deeper and deeper, lubricant slick and messy around his spike. Master’s hot and tight and welcoming and if it weren’t for the spike ring, Panther knows he’d be close to overload.   
  
As it is, he can only throb and thrust, hands pawing at the ground, knees digging in, his spike raking over Master’s sensory nodes. Charge fills the space between, sparking from node to node, until Master is bucking up against him, hungry and wanting. His voice is a drone to Panther’s roaring audials, but there are encouragement and demands in there.   
  
“Good boy. Good pet. More. Deeper. Harder. Such a g-good p-p-pet.”   
  
Master tosses his head. His frame creaks as he pushes back against Panther, lubricant sloppy down the back of his thighs. Static crawls over his armor and zaps against Panther’s own, and Master’s engine revs.   
  
Master murmurs other things, maybe encouragement, but it’s lost to the static, and then he’s overloading, clenching down hard on Panther’s spike, as if milking him for a release he can’t offer. His spike hurts he’s so hard, but he can’t overload. He can only thrust wildly, riding the wild buck of Master’s frame. Transfluid splatters to the floor from Master’s spike as Panther’s frantic thrusting pulls another overload from his Master, who vents scorching heat and abruptly sags, dragging Panther down on top of him.   
  
Panther whines, hips making little aborted jerks. He wants to overload. His spike hurts, swollen around the pressure of the ring. The tug on his collar is intoxicating, and Master is trembling beneath him, his plating vibrating.   
  
“Down, Panther,” Master manages to sputter, his vents coming in heavy pants, his field thick with languid heat.   
  
Reluctantly, Panther obeys, withdrawing from the hot clench of Master’s valve, his spike dripping lubricant. He wants so badly to overload, and can only watch as Master rolls over onto his back, legs splayed, his interface array liberally splattered with fluids and looking so tasty. The end of the leash is limp in Master’s fingers.   
  
Panther licks his lips. He sits back on his aft, grinding the plug deep into his aft, enjoying the pleasure that washes through his frame. His valve feels so empty, and he’s leaving a puddle beneath him.   
  
Slitted blue optics watch him before Master gives a tug on the end of the leash. “Good boy,” he says and his free hand crooks a finger toward Panther. “Well-behaved pets earn their rewards, don’t they?”   
  
Panther scuttles across the floor and all but throws himself into Master’s lap, his spike leaving streaks on the sides of Master’s thigh. Master chuckles at him, running a hand over his head and another over his aft, giving it a light pat. His fingers thread through the fur of Panther’s tail, giving the plug a light tug.   
  
“Yes, good rewards,” Master murmurs before he flicks the tail of the plug aside, exposing Panther’s valve to view.   
  
Panther whines again and spread his knees, pushing his aft up into the air, baring himself to his Master. Whatever he wants to do, Panther will allow it. He kneads at Master’s other leg and rocks his hips and makes hopeful noises.   
  
He moans as Master’s fingers tease at his valve folds, dragging through the lubricant glistening over the mesh. Master finds his anterior node and gives it a pinch, and Panther almost overloads then and there, except the spike ring’s pressure blocks even his valve from overloading.   
  
He whimpers and rubs his face on Master’s leg. It hurts. And he is a good pet! Master promised him a reward, and he wants it.   
  
The hand dips lower, teases at the base of his spike. Panther cants his hips hopefully, ex-venting hot air, his knees scraping at the floor. A finger teases at his valve opening, rubbing the lubricant-wet folds, before Panther hears the tiniest of clicks, and the spike ring springs open, freeing his spike.   
  
“Good boy,” Master murmurs as his fingers plunge into Panther’s valve and curve just right. “Now overload for me, Panther. Enjoy your reward.”   
  
It starts in his limbs, in his extremities. It roars through his engine, through his vents, through his intake. Panther keens as overload throbs through the entirety of his frame, pouring out of his seams in liquid roils of charge, his spike spurting and his valve clamping down tight on his Master’s fingers. His hips jerk, rutting against Master’s hand, and his frame goes wobbly.   
  
His vision whites out. All other senses abandon him to the ecstasy, leaving him floating on air, spark dancing a happy twirl. Time vanishes, or at least his perception of it. He drifts in a haze of pleasure and relief, soaking up the feel of Master’s field around him, and the ecstasy humming through his lines.   
  
He comes back into his frame flopped over his Master’s lap, panting and vents whirring, his entire self thrumming with delight. Master’s hand is petting him, while the other rests on his aft, leaving stickiness behind.   
  
Master murmurs to him, a smile in his voice, “Ah, there you are, pet. You made a mess. I’ve been waiting for you to clean it up.”   
  
Panther stirs and pushes himself upright with wobbly arms. He looks down and sees the splatter of fluids on his Master’s legs, and he flushes with embarrassment. He knows better than that.   
  
Master cups his face with sticky fingers, and Panther licks at them, tasting transfluid and lubricant both. There’s something soothing about obeying the simple command, his engine settling into a quiet idle as he laps at Master’s hand, cleaning it. Then he moves to focus on Master’s legs: knees first, then his thighs.   
  
Master makes room for Panther between his thighs, petting Panther’s head in approval as he cleans up his own transfluid and Master’s lubricant, too. It’s gone tacky, but the taste of it is familiar and welcome. It’s soothing, not that Panther could ever explain why.   
  
Master keeps stroking him, fingers gentle on Panther’s intake, as he unlatches the leash and sets it aside. He reaches for the collar, too, but Panther whimpers and looks up at his Master. He pleads with his optics since he can’t use his words.   
  
“You don’t want me to take it off?” Master asks, his voice as gentle as the touch of his fingers.   
  
Panther dips his head and licks Master’s fingers. No. He wants the collar on for now. He doesn’t want it taken off. He doesn’t want the weight of responsibility back yet. He’s not ready.   
  
“Alright, I’ll leave it on for a bit longer then.” Master’s hand moves away after a pat to Panther’s head, and he draws back, rising to his pedes with a creak of old joints. “Clean the mat, Panther. You’re almost done.”   
  
Obedience is so very easy.  
  
Panther bends over and starts lapping up fluids from the thick mat, both his and Master’s. It’s not the most palatable like this, but it’s not about taste. It’s about submission. Concession. Trust. The feel of Master’s field sliding over his.   
  
Master’s hands on his aft, gently stroking him. Master’s fingers careful as they eased the plug out of Panther’s aft, his port rippling in it’s absence. He misses the thickness immediately, but knows he can’t keep it in forever. Master takes it away, putting it in a bin to be cleaned later. So it can be used again.   
  
Anytime Panther needs it.   
  
Master pats him on the head then, his fingers lingering. “Leave the rest for later, boy. Come on. Let’s get on the berth instead.”   
  
Panther licks his lips and rises out of his crouch, looking up at Master, who has crawled onto the berth with an exhausted whuff of his field. He crooks a finger at Panther invitingly, and Panther gives a little yip before he clambers up to join Master.   
  
This is his favorite part, when he snuggles up next to Master, the collar heavy but comfortable around his intake, a sign of ownership and trust. He’s half on top of his Master, half beside him, an arm around his frame and a hand petting him, the motions gentle and rhythmic.   
  
“Good boy,” Master murmurs, and there’s love in the words, affection as thick as what’s in his field. It warms Panther to his spark.   
  
Panther lays his head down and listens to the thrum of Master’s engine, to the pulse of his spark, and the tick-tick of a cooling frame. He wants to bury himself here, in the warmth and comfort, and he knows the morning means he has to take off the collar and become Prowl again. But for right now, he has this and Master and he’s all Panther needs in the world.   
  
Safe. Comforted. Loved.   
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. Suggestions for future kinks to explore are also welcome. :)


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